poisson, the chances are that nothing would have happened. But he didn't. He said fish.
No doubt Thomas Trotter was in a bad humour also. He was a very sensible young man, and there was no reason why he should be jealous of Stuyvesant Smith-Parvis. He had it from Miss Emsdale herself that she loathed and despised the fellow. And yet he saw red when she passed him a quarter of an hour before with Stuyvesant at her side. For some time he had been harassed by the thought that if she had not caught sight of him as she left the car, the young man's offer of assistance might not have been spurned. In any event, there certainly was something queer afoot. Why was she driving about with Mrs. Smith-Parvis,—and Stuyvesant,—as if she were one of the family and not a paid employe?
In the twinkling of an eye, Thomas Trotter forgot that he was a chauffeur. He remembered only that he was Lord Eric Carruthers Ethelbert Temple, the grandson of a soldier, the great-grandson of a soldier, and the great-great grandson of a soldier whose father and grandfather had been soldiers before him.
Thomas Trotter would have said,—and quite properly, too, considering his position;—"Quite so, sir."
Lord Temple merely put his face a little closer to Stuyvesant's and said, very audibly, very distinctly: "You go to hell!"
Stuyvesant fell back a step. He could not believe his ears. The fellow couldn't have said—and yet, there was no possible way of making anything else out of it. He had said "You go to hell."
Fortunately he had said it in the presence of ladies.
