GEORGE Lord BRAMLEIGH, roundest and youngest of men of six-and-twenty, overtaking Jocelyn Lord Gunner in St. James's-street, tipped him on the shoulder with his stick-handle. Gunner turned, red in the face.
Damn you, Bramleigh, shut up, he said.
Couldn't shut up to save my life, old chap, his friend replied. I'm so fit I don't know what to do with myself. Come back into the Fencing Club and make passes at me.
Gunner grohrled, See you shotfirst, and walked on. Bramleigh joined him, humming an air.
Look here, said Gunner, after a time. D'you know a man called Duplessis?
Rather, says Lord Bramleigh. Go on.
That's what he's doing, Lord Gunner mused.
His goings-on are awful. He'll make the lady talked about -- and she don't deserve it."
The lady must be named, and Lord Bramleigh whistled at her name. Reminiscences of a morning at San Sebastian came upon him, but were withheld. Lord Gunner poured out his grievances.