“How do, Tony? How do, Ffoulkes?” he said, recognising the two young men and shaking them by the hand. “Zounds, my dear fellow,” he added, smothering a slight yawn, “did you ever see such a beastly day? Demmed climate this.”

With a quaint little laugh, half of embarrassment and half of sarcasm, Marguerite had turned towards her husband, and was surveying him from head to foot, with an amused little twinkle in her merry blue eyes.

“La!” said Sir Percy, after a moment or two’s silence, as no one offered any comment, “how sheepish you all look…. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing, Sir Percy,” replied Marguerite, with a certain amount of gaiety, which, however, sounded somewhat forced, “nothing to disturb your equanimity—only an insult to your wife.”

The laugh which accompanied this remark was evidently intended to reassure Sir Percy as to the gravity of the incident. It apparently succeeded in that, for, echoing the laugh, he rejoined placidly—

“La, m’dear! you don’t say so. Begad! who was the bold man who dared to tackle you—eh?”

Lord Tony tried to interpose, but had no time to do so, for the young Vicomte had already quickly stepped forward.

“Monsieur,” he said, prefixing his little speech with an elaborate bow, and speaking in broken English, “my mother, the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, has offenced Madame, who, I see, is your wife. I cannot ask your pardon for my mother; what she does is right in my eyes. But I am ready to offer you the usual reparation between men of honour.”

The young man drew up his slim stature to its full height and looked very enthusiastic, very proud, and very hot as he gazed at six foot odd of gorgeousness, as represented by Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart.

“Lud, Sir Andrew,” said Marguerite, with one of her merry infectious laughs, “look on that pretty picture—the English turkey and the French bantam.”

The simile was quite perfect, and the English turkey looked down with complete bewilderment upon the dainty little French bantam, which hovered quite threateningly around him.

“La! sir,” said Sir Percy at last, putting up his eye-glass and surveying the young Frenchman with undisguised wonderment, “where, in the cuckoo’s name, did you learn to speak English?”

“Monsieur!” protested the Vicomte, somewhat abashed at the way his warlike attitude had been taken by the ponderous-looking Englishman.

“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.”