Shaw's heart was touched. The spectacle was
enough to melt the prejudice of any adversary. Lord Cecil's knees
trembled; his hand shook as if in a chill. Mud-covered, water-soaked,
and bruised, their clothes rent in many places, their hats gone and
their hair matted, their legs wobbly, the trio certainly inspired
pity, not mirth nor scorn.
"One moment, sir," called his lordship, with a feeble attempt at
severity. His voice was hoarse and shaky. "We do not come as friends,
dem you. Is my sister here?"
"She is, Lord Bazelhurst. We'll talk this over later on," said Shaw in
his friendliest way. "You are worn out and done up, I'm sure--you and
your friends. Come! I'm not as bad as you think. I've changed my
mind since I saw you last. Let's see if we can't come to an amicable
understanding. Miss Drake is waiting up there. Breakfast soon will be
ready--hot coffee and all that. Permit me, gentlemen, to invite you to
partake of what we have. What say you?"
"Confound you, sir, I--I--" but his brave effort failed him. He
staggered and would have fallen had not the duke caught him from
behind.
"Thanks, old chap," said Barminster to Shaw. "We will come in for a
moment. I say, perhaps you could give us a dry dud or two. Bazelhurst
is in a bad way and so is the count. It was a devil of a storm."
"_Mon Dieu! c'etait epouvantable_!" groaned the count.
Penelope came down from the porch to meet them. Without a word she
took her brother's arm. He stared at her with growing resentment.
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