Made bold by the continued presence of at least three ladies, Stuyvesant, assuming that a chauffeur would not dare go so far as a physical retort, snapped his fingers under Trotter's nose and said:
"For two cents I'd kick you all over town for that."
Miss Emsdale erred slightly in her agitation. She grasped Stuyvesant's arm. Trotter also erred. He thought she was trying to keep Smith-Parvis from carrying out the threat.
Mrs. Millidew, the elder, cried out sharply: "What's all this? Trotter, get up on the seat at once. I—"
Mrs. Millidew, the younger, leaned from the window and patted Trotter on the shoulder. Her eyes were sparkling.
"Give it to him, Trotter. Don't mind me!" she cried.
Stuyvesant turned to Miss Emsdale. "Don't be alarmed, my dear, I sha'n't do it, you know. Pray compose yourself. I—"
At that juncture Lord Eric Temple reached out and, with remarkable precision, grasped Stuyvesant's nose between his thumb and forefinger. One sharp twist brought a surprised grunt from the owner of the nose, a second elicited a pained squeak, and the third,—pressed upward as well as both to the right and left,—resulted in a sharp howl of anguish.
The release of his nose was attended by a sudden push that sent Stuyvesant backward two or three steps.
"Oh, my God!" he gasped, and felt for his nose. There were tears in his eyes. There would have been
