"I hanker not for such service as you have given him," M. Étienne answered. Peyrot's eyes twinkled brighter than ever.
"I have said it. I will serve you as vigourously as I have served him. Bear me in mind, monsieur."
"Come, Félix," was all my lord's answer.
Peyrot sprang forward to detain us.
"Monsieur, will you not dine with me? Both of you, I beg. I will have every wine the cellar affords."
"No," said M. Étienne, carelessly, not deigning to anger; "but there is my dinner for you, an you like. I have paid for it, but I have other business than to eat it."
Bidding a waiter serve M. Peyrot, he walked from the room without other glance at him. A slight shade fell over the reckless, scampish face; he was a moment vexed that we scorned him. Merely vexed, I think; shamed not at all; he knew not the feel of it. Even in the brief space I watched him, as I passed to the door, his visage cleared, and he sat him down contentedly to finish M. Étienne's veal broth.
My lord paced along rapidly and gladly, on fire to be before Monsieur with the packet. But one little cloud, transient as Peyrot's, passed across his lightsome countenance.
"I would that knave were of my rank," he said. "I had not left him without slapping a glove in his face."
That Peyrot had come off scot-free put me out of patience, too, but I regretted the gold we had given him more than the wounds we had not. The money, on the contrary, troubled M. Étienne no whit; what he had never toiled for he parted with lightly.