“You little devilish scullion!” spat out the Duke.
“Tut, tut! But I forget. Monsieur has pursue' his studies of deportment amongs' his fellow-countrymen.
“Do you dream a soul in Bath will take your word that I—that I—”
“That M. le Duc de Winterset had a card up his sleeve?”
“You pitiful stroller, you stableboy, born in a stable—”
“Is it not an honor to be born where monsieur must have been bred?”
“You scurvy foot-boy, you greasy barber, you cutthroat groom—”
“Overwhelm'!” The young man bowed with imperturbable elation. “M. le Duc appoint' me to all the office' of his househol'.”
“You mustachioed fool, there are not five people of quality in Bath will speak to you—”
“No, monsieur, not on the parade; but how many come to play with me here? Because I will play always, night or day, for what one will, for any long, and always fair, monsieur.”