He drank almost with reverence, and set down his glass with a hand that trembled.
Mordaunt got up. "That is settled, then. By the way, the question of salary does not seem to have occurred to you. I don't know if you have any ideas upon the subject. Four hundred pounds per annum is what I thought of offering."
"Four hundred pounds!" De Montville stared at him in amazement. "Four hundred pounds!" he repeated, in rising agitation. "But no, monsieur! It is too much! I will not—I cannot—take—even from you—a gift so great. I—I—"
He waxed unintelligible in his distress, and would have risen, but Mordaunt's hand upon his shoulder kept him down. Mordaunt bent over him, very quiet and friendly, very sure of himself and of the man he addressed.
"That's all right, mon ami. It is not too much. It's a perfectly
fair bargain, and—to please me if you like—I want you to accept it.
You will find there is plenty to do, possibly more than you anticipate.
So—suppose we consider it settled, eh?"
De Montville was silent.
"We'll call it done," Mordaunt said. "Have a cigarette!"
He held his case in front of the Frenchman, and after a moment de Montville took one. But he only balanced it in his fingers, still saying nothing.
"A light?" suggested Mordaunt.
He made a jerky movement, and glanced up for an instant. "Mr. Mordaunt," he said, speaking with evident difficulty, "what is—a pal?"