Hissing their sisters’ names, Mary and Rose tugged at their arms, but the two girls dug in, struggling to stay as their sisters inexorably dragged them away. At that moment, two things happened: a small dog came bounding down the street, and a tall, thin man stepped out of the door of the nearest house.
The dog barked joyously, running in circles around the knot of arguing people, pausing now and then to jump first to one side, then the other and bark even more loudly, his stump of a tail wagging all the time.
The tall, thin man’s response was less enthusiastic. “Wainsley! What the devil is going on?”
Rose and Mary, intent though they were on drawing their sisters away, could not help but stare at the man who came down the stairs. Mary presumed this must be the Honorable Mr. Pinkley Fanshaw, owner of the horses. And he was attired in clothes that would have no doubt have wrung a gasp of admiration from Royce’s inebriated companion Gordon.
His long, narrow legs were encased in tightly fitting pantaloons in a pale shade of green, and his bright blue jacket, nipped in tightly at the waist, was padded out ludicrously at the shoulders and had tails so long they almost touched his ankles in back. The high hat that other gentlemen wore had become two inches taller on him and bowed out at the top so that, to Mary’s untutored eye, it looked rather like a plant pot with a brim. A quizzing glass hung on a chain from one lapel, and in the other was a boutonnière so large that it put Cousin Gordon’s to shame. His waistcoat was a paisley pattern of blue, yellow, and purple, and it sported an ornate watch with a golden chain weighted down by fobs. Rings adorned three fingers on each hand, and a large diamond winked in the folds of an intricately tied neckcloth. The starched points of his collar stood straight up, so high that he could not turn his head with spoiling them, so that when the man spoke to someone, he had to pivot his entire body to face the person. In his hand he carried a glossy black cane topped by a large gold knob.#p#分页标题#e#
He planted himself in front of the girls, posing with one hand on his cane, and repeated, “What the devil is going on here?”
The coachman bowed as low as he could, given the size of his stomach. “Mr. Fanshaw, sir, beggin’ yer pardon. These girls were messin’ about with yer horses, and—”
“We were not messing about,” Mary felt compelled to interject. “We were simply standing there. It was your coachman who was rude to us.”
The man turned and raised his quizzing glass to stare at her. Mary gazed back at him, startled.
Finally it was brought home to the man that his stare had left Mary unintimidated, and he dropped the glass. “I don’t believe I was addressing you.”
“No. I was addressing you.” Mary wondered if perhaps the man was a bit dim. “I was saying that the behavior of your driver was quite rude. He began—”
At this moment the dog, apparently disappointed that the shouting had ceased, darted forward and leapt up in the air several times as if he were on springs. On the last jump, he planted his front feet on the pale green pantaloons of Mr. Fanshaw and left behind two long muddy streaks as he dropped to the ground.
Fanshaw’s face turned tomato red and he let out an unearthly shriek, swinging his cane at the dog. “You cur! You wretch! You’ve ruined them!”
The dog easily dodged as Fanshaw lunged this way and that, trying to hit him with his cane.
“Stop!” Lily cried. “You’ll hurt him! Don’t hit that dog!”
In fact, the man had little chance of landing a blow, for the dog was much more agile than he and danced around the man, yapping happily. As Fanshaw whirled and stomped, brandishing his cane to no effect, the dog’s gaze fell on the long tails of the man’s coat, flapping enticingly. The dog darted forward and clamped his teeth into one of the coattails. He planted his paws and dug in, growling and shaking his head as he worried his prey.
This action sent the Honorable Mr. Fanshaw into a spasm of rage. Cursing and ranting, he whirled around and around, trying in vain to hit the dog. Firmly latched onto the tail of his coat, the dog spun with him, always out of reach.
“Damn you, Wainsley, get this mutt off me!” Fanshaw shrieked, his face so violent a shade of purple that Mary feared he might suffer a fit of apoplexy.
The coachman strode forward and kicked the dog, catching its hindquarters and sending it tumbling across the sidewalk with a yelp of pain. Camellia dashed for the animal, scooping him up and facing the coachman pugnaciously, her arms wrapped protectively around it.
“Don’t you dare touch him again,” she warned, her eyes shooting a kind of fire that would have given a more intelligent man pause.