“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.”