He laughed. Ordinarily he had little sense of humour; but now he had the
flames in his heart and the hell in his throat, and red mist before
his eyes.

"Oh, I'll be polite," he growled. "By God, I'll be polite! One may be
suffering the tortures of the damned, but one must smirk and be polite!"

He snatched up the first thing to hand, a helmet that stood on a case,
and brought it down below the screen.

"Katherine, Viviette says I'm not delivering my lecture properly. I beg
your pardon. I'm rather shy at first, but I get warmed up to my subject.
What would you like to hear about?"

Katherine exchanged a glance with Austin.

"Don't you think we might put off the rest till another day?"

"Yes, old chap. Put it off till to-morrow. It's your birthday, you
know."

"Birthday? What's that got to do with it? Who knows what may happen
between then and now? No--no. I'm all right," he cried wildly. "You're
here, and you've got to listen. I'll get into fine form presently.
Look!" he said, pointing to the helmet he was holding. "Here is a
Cromwellian morion. It was picked up by an ancestor at Naseby. It has a
clean cut in it. That's where an honest gentleman's sword found its way
into the knave's skull--the puritanical, priggish, canting knave."

He threw the helmet with a clatter on to the table as if it had been the