THE FLEECE TAVERN
choly one sometimes sees on the faces of men who live for pleasure alone. But as his eyes turned towards the table a smile, full of careless good-humor, came over his features. He advanced, pausing a moment as Wynne and Heywood pushed Ferrers down by main force into his seat.
“Messieurs,” said Mornay, smiling quizzically, “your servitor.” He stopped again. “I thought my name was spoken. No?” He looked from one to the other. “My name I comprehend, but, messieurs, my titles—my new titles! To whom am I indebted for my titles? Ah, Monsieur le Capitaine Ferraire, mon ami, I am glad that you are here. I thought that I had fallen among enemies.”
He laughed gayly. It was rippling and mellow, a laugh from the very cockles of the heart, full of the joy of living, in which there lurked no suspicion of doubt or insincerity—the situation was so vastly amusing. Cornbury laughed, too. He was an Irishman with a galloping humor; nor was Downey slow to follow his example.
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