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. 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 tears in anybody's eyes after those merciless tweaks. Finding his nose still attached, he struck out wildly with both fists, a blind fury possessing him. Even a coward will strike if you pull his nose severely enough. As Trotter remained motionless after the distressing act of Lord Temple, Stuyvesant missed him by a good yard and a half, but managed to connect solidly with the corner of the limousine, barking his knuckles, a circumstance which subsequently provided him with something to substantiate his claim to having planted a "good one" on the blighter's jaw. His hat fell off and rolled still farther away from the redoubtable Trotter, luckily in the direction of the Smith-Parvis car. By the time Stuyvesant retrieved it, after making several clutches in his haste, he was, singularly enough, beyond the petrified figure of his mother. "Call the police! Call the police!" Mrs. Smith-Parvis was whimpering. "Where are the police?" Mrs. Millidew, the elder, cried out sharply: "Hush up! Don't be idiotic! Do you want to attract the police and a crowd and--What do you mean, Trotter, by attacking Mr. Smith-Par--"