“No, no, mon ami; but great news—a secret.”
“Keep it, then.”
“No, no; it is for you as well. An affaire of honneur.”
“An affair of fluff! Bosh! we don’t fight here.”
“No,” said Leronde, frowning fiercely. “Belgium.”
“Why, you confounded young donkey, whom are you going to fight?”
“I fight? But, no; I am one seconde. I come to you as my dear friend to be ze ozaire.”
“Oh, of course,” cried Pacey ironically. “Exactly—just in my line.”
“I knew you would,” cried Leronde, lighting a fresh cigarette, and offering the packet, which was refused.
“Bah! I like a draught, not a spoonful,” growled Pacey, taking up and filling his big meerschaum. “Now then, about this honour mania? Who’s the happy man?”