“Permit me! Permit me——”
But de Fresnoy had turned on his heel. Before him Verplank stood, Silverstairs on one side, the old surgeon on the other. The young surgeon had joined them. Beyond, Barouffski was examining the point of his foil.
From Verplank’s mouth and face blood was running. The wound had not improved his appearance. The old surgeon, on tiptoes, was staunching it.
“What I like,” he confided, speaking the while very unctuously as though what he was saying would be a comfort to Verplank; “what I like is to attend to gentlemen whose wives have deceived them. Outraged husbands, monsieur, that is my specialty!”
Verplank brushed him aside, shook his foil, and called at de Fresnoy.
“Are the three minutes up?”
“Monsieur!” the old surgeon protested.
The young surgeon intervened.
“But, monsieur——”
De Fresnoy motioned at them.