“Can a gentleman not measure velvet? and what harm shall it work him to know the cost of it?”
“That is a quibble,” answered Aubrey, loftily. “For any gentleman to soil his fingers with craft is a blot on his escocheon, and that you know as well as I.”
“For any man, gentle or simple, to soil his fingers with sin, or his tongue with falsehood, is a foul blot on his escocheon,” replied Hans, looking Aubrey in the face.
Once more the blood mounted to Aubrey’s brow, and he answered with some warmth, “What mean you?”
“I did but respond to your words. Be mine other than truth?”
“Be not scurrilous, boy!” said Aubrey, angrily.
“Hans, I am astonished at you!” said Faith. “I know not how it is, but since we came to London, you are for ever picking quarrels with Aubrey, and seeking occasion against him. Are you envious of his better fortune, or what is it moves you?”
It was a minute before Hans answered, and when he did so, his voice was very quiet and low.
“I am sorry to have vexed you, Mrs Louvaine. If I know myself, I do not envy Aubrey at all; and indeed I desire to pick no quarrel with any man, and him least of any.”
Then, turning to Aubrey, he held out his hand. “Forgive me, if I said aught I should not.”