“And if I do not, my looks will strangely belie my sentiments, that I can tell you,” said Onslow, with a quiet laugh. “I don't care how you read the confession, Norwood, but I tell you frankly, that if the insult in this instance admitted of an apology, if there were any way to come off consistent with honor, I 'd take it, and not fight this Frenchman.”
“Have you forgotten his reputation as a shot?” asked Norwood, hastily.
“I was not thinking of it. My mind was dwelling merely on myself and my own interests, how far my life, if preserved, could be rendered useful to others, and in what way my death might occasion detriment and injury.”
“A most mercantile estimate of profit and loss, by Jove!” said Norwood, laughing; “and perhaps it is fortunate for you there is no amende possible, for if Guilmard should miss you—”
“As to these acceptances,” said George, not paying attention to what the other said, “I 'd prefer that they should not be presented to my father under our actual circumstances. My horses and carriages, and some other trumpery of mine, when sold, will more than meet them, and I have given orders to that end.”
“Come, old fellow, it's not gone that far yet,” said Norwood, affecting a tone of friendship, suggested by the self-satisfaction the promise of payment afforded him. “But, hush! There they are, all together. Let us talk no more of these matters; and now, George, for Heaven's sake, be cool.”
Norwood drew the other's arm within his own as he said this, and advanced to where a group of some half-dozen persons were standing, beside a low balcony, overlooking the Val d'Arno and the graceful valley in which Florence stands. Norwood quitted his friend's arm as he came forward and saluted the company. Nothing could possibly be more easy and unconstrained than the tone of their conversation, as they chatted away about the prospect beneath, and over which, like a gauzy veil, the gray shadow of dawn was hanging. With the exception of an Italian or two, they were all French, the young fashionables who were the loungers of the salons and cafes of the city.
“Have you breakfasted, my Lord?” said one. “If not, let me recommend some excellent cutlets, which are not too cold, even yet.”
“And the best chocolate I ever tasted out of Paris,” cried another.
“Thanks,” said Norwood. “We 'll profit by the good counsel.” And, taking a cigar from his case, he lighted it from Guilmard's, as, with hands in his paletot, he sat negligently on the wall, surveying the scene below him.