From that time on they had been enemies. And he had sworn that if it
took a lifetime, the rogue would be brought to term for his insolence.
That Purceville had risen still further, despite his every
intervention, had only fanned the embers of his jealous hatred,
driving him on and on. Most galling (to a man who held as sacred trust
his own noble birth) were the manipulations, never proved, which had
led to his recognition as a Lord, descended from other Lords. Let
others believe what they liked! This man was lower born than the
commonest sailor, and one day he would hold forth his true nature for
all to see.
And now, now
that day had come! Throwing caution to the winds, he strode briskly
down the long corridors, seeking a direct confrontation with his foe.
At length he came upon him in his study, sitting unconcerned with a
beautifully printed, leather-bound book in his hands: The Gentleman's
Creed, by Sir William Blythe.
"Purceville," said the smaller man hotly. "I should like a word."
"Certainly, Earl," returned the other, with his hand indicating an
adjacent armchair.
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