"No. Just stood there. He's lost his nerve again. He won't bother me, but the Irishman is in this game for keeps."
"He is dangerous, mon ami. You 'ad better not go on wit' dis affair."
"Yes, Piquette, I must," he said quietly. "I got into this situation by being a moral coward, I'm not going to get out of it by being a physical one. Besides, I've promised."
"Who?"
"Myself. It's a duty I owe——," he paused.
"To Madame 'Orton? An' what t'anks do you get?" She shrugged expressively. "A bullet or a knife in de ribs, perhaps. You 'ave already almos' enough been shot and beaten, mon vieux."
"And yet here I am quite comfortable in your best chair, and none the worse—thanks to you, Piquette."
"But you cannot always be so lucky. I would be ver' onhappy if you were kill', mon Jeem."
"Would you, Piquette?" he said, taking her hand impulsively and kissing it gently.
"An' den it is too late to be onhappy——," she sighed and put her other hand over his. "Oh, mon Jeem, life is so short, so sweet. It is not right to take a chance of dying before one's time."