Blake sucked in his nether-lip, his florid face a thought less florid than its wont, his prominent blue eyes a thought more prominent. Under its golden periwig old Nick Trenchard's wizened countenance was darkened by a scowl, and his fingers, long, swarthy, and gnarled, drummed fretfully upon the table. Portly Lord Gervase Scoresbyâtheir host, a benign and placid man of peace, detesting turbulenceâturned crimson now in wordless rage. The others gaped and staredâsome at young Westmacott, some at the man he had so grossly affrontedâwhilst in the shadows of the hall a couple of lacqueys looked on amazed, all teeth and eyes...FROM THE BOOKS.