“GENTLEMEN OF THE FRENCH GUARD,
“I take up the glove you have tossed us. I am an Englishman. That will do for a reason.”
This might possibly pass with the gentlemen of the English Guard. But read:
“MESSIEURS DE LA GARDE FRANÇAISE,
“J’accepte votre gant. Je suis Anglais. La raison est suffisante.”
And imagine French Guardsmen reading it!
Mr. Beauchamp knew the virtue of punctiliousness in epithets and phrases of courtesy toward a formal people, and as the officers of the French Guard were gentlemen of birth, he would have them to perceive in him their equal at a glance. On the other hand, a bare excess of phrasing distorted him to a likeness of Mascarille playing Marquis. How to be English and think French! The business was as laborious as if he had started on the rough sea of the Channel to get at them in an open boat.
The lady governing his uncle Everard’s house, Mrs. Rosamund Culling, entered his room and found him writing with knitted brows. She was young, that is, she was not in her middleage; and they were the dearest of friends; each had given the other proof of it. Nevil looked up and beheld her lifted finger.
“You are composing a love-letter, Nevil!” The accusation sounded like irony.
“No,” said he, puffing; “I wish I were.”
“What can it be, then?”
He thrust pen and paper a hand’s length on the table, and gazed at her.