"I protest `tis marvellous!" continued Sir Percy,
imperturbably, "demmed marvellous! Don't you think so, Tony--eh?
I vow I can't speak the French lingo like that. What?"
"Nay, I'll vouch for that!" rejoined Marguerite, "Sir Percy
has a British accent you could cut with a knife."
"Monsieur," interposed the Vicomte earnestly, and in still
more broken English, "I fear you have not understand. I offer you the
only posseeble reparation among gentlemen."
"What the devil is that?" asked Sir Percy, blandly.
"My sword, Monsieur," replied the Vicomte, who, though still
bewildered, was beginning to lose his temper.
"You are a sportsman, Lord Tony," said Marguerite, merrily;
"ten to one on the little bantam."
But Sir Percy was staring sleepily at the Vicomte for a moment
or two, through his partly closed heavy lids, then he smothered
another yawn, stretched his long limbs, and turned leisurely away.
"Lud love you, sir," he muttered good-humouredly. "demmit,
young man, what's the good of your sword to me?"
What the Vicomte thought and felt at that moment, when that
long-limbed Englishman treated him with such marked insolence, might
fill volumes of sound reflections.
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