THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
“’Tis not your quarrel, Cornbury,” growled Ferrers.
“Nor yours, Ferrers,” said Heywood, coldly.
“You see, monsieur,” said Mornay to Downey, with mock helplessness, “there is no help for it.”
Cornbury swore a round oath:
“I’ faith, I wash my hands of ye. If fight ye must, quarrel dacently over the cards, man; but do not drag a lady’s name through the streets of London.”
Mornay turned to Cornbury. “It is true, mon ami—it is true.” Then, in a flash, gayly, aloud, almost like a child, he shouted: “Allons, time is flying. To-morrow we shall fight, but to-night—to-night we shall play at quinze. Monsieur Ferraire, you owe me three hundred guineas. We shall play for these. If you win, you will die to-morrow with a clear conscience. If you lose, monsieur, I’ll be your undertaker. Come, maître d’hôtel!—wine!”
