“Joe, I swear—”
“Thank you,” said Pacey ironically. “I can do enough of that as I go home;” and, swinging open the door, he strode out and went downstairs, whistling loudly the last popular music-hall air.
“Aha! he flies,” cried Leronde, biting through his cigarette, the lighted end falling to the floor, while he ground up the other between his teeth. “I go down. He insult me—he insult you, my dear friend. I pull his nose on ze door mat, and say damn.”
“Be quiet, lad!” cried Armstrong fiercely. “It is nothing to do with you. It is my affair.”
“Yes, I understand, dear ole man,” said Leronde, placing his fingers to his lips, and nodding his head a great deal, while Armstrong stood dreamy and thoughtful, frowning, as if undecided what to do. “I know I am French—man of the whole world, my friend. I love the big Pacie. So good, so noble, but he is not young and handsome. The lady, she prefaire my other good friend. What marvel? And the good Pacie is jealous.”
“No, no; you do not understand.”
“But, yes. Cherchez la femme! It is so always. They make all the mischief in the great world, but we love them always the same.”
“I tell you that you do not understand,” cried Armstrong angrily.
“Well, no; but enough, my friend. Ah, there is so much in a lettaire that is perfumed. I do not like it; you two are such good friends—my best friends; you, the American, he, the big honest Jean Bull. I do not like you to fight, but there, what is it?—a meeting for the honour in Hyde Park, a few minutes wiz the small sword, a scratch, and then you embrace, and we go to the déjeûner better friends than before. You are silent. I will make another cigarette.”
“I was thinking,” said Dale slowly.