M. de Perrencourt did not start now; I should have been disappointed if he had.
"Very well," he answered. "If you're his friend, you're mine." He held out his hand.
"I take it on false pretences," said I with a laugh, as I shook it. "For we came near to quarrelling, M. de Fontelles and I."
"Ah, on what point?"
"A nothing, sir."
"Nay, but tell me."
"Indeed I will not, if you'll pardon me."
"Sir, I wish to know. I ins—I beg." A stare from me had stopped the "insist" when it was half-way through his lips. On my soul, he flushed! I tell my children sometimes how I made him flush; the thing was not done often. Yet his confusion was but momentary, and suddenly, I know not how, I in my turn became abashed with the cold stare of his eyes, and when he asked me my name, I answered baldly, with never a bow and never a flourish, "Simon Dale."
"I have heard your name," said he gravely. Then he turned round and began looking at the sea again.
Now, had he been wearing his own clothes (if I may so say) this conduct would have been appropriate enough; it would have been a dismissal and I should have passed on my way. But a man should be consistent in his disguises, and from M. de Perrencourt, gentleman-in-waiting, the behaviour was mighty uncivil. Yet my revenge must be indirect.