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 ScoresbyтАФtheir host, a benign and placid man of peace, detesting turbulenceтАФturned crimson now in wordless rage. The others gaped and staredтАФsome at young Westmacott, some at the man he had so grossly affrontedтАФwhilst in the shadows of the hall a couple of lacqueys looked on amazed, all teeth and eyes...FROM THE BOOKS.