“What, are you purposing to fight a duel?” said Troubridge, laughing.
“No, my dear Troubridge, no, but I like to keep my wrist in practice. Come and have a bout with me.”
There was some raillery, for Sir Anthony was known to be a peaceable man. In high good humour, and in the expectation of entertainment to be gained from confronting Rensley at the fencing master’s, not only the two invited, but Orton also, and my Lord Kestrel decided to accompany Sir Anthony. They would bait Mr Rensley a little, and take a turn with the foils. It would be an agreeable way of spending the morning.
The little Italian had a room over the shop owned by a purveyor of rappee, in the Haymarket. The small party was soon arrived there, and climbed the stairs to the first floor. There was some laughter and a deal of light talk. Signor Galliano’s servant came to the head of the stairs, drawn by the sudden noise, and requested the gentlemen to have the goodness to wait only a moment in the chamber behind the fencing-room. There was a gentleman with the good signor.
“Oh, we know all about that, Tino!” said my Lord Kestrel jovially, and pushed by to the door of the front room.
Tino expostulated feebly, but it seemed there was no gainsaying these merry gentlemen.
My lord opened the door, and affected a start of surprise. “Good gad, Rensley! You here?”
Mr Rensley was putting on his coat, and looked up with a very genuine start. In the middle of the floor the little Italian instructor stood leaning on his foil, and beaming with pleasure upon these new visitors. He descried the large form of Sir Anthony Fanshawe, and flourished the foil joyously. “Aha, saire! Aha! You come to me to learn the newest passes, eh? I have one for you, and you may call it Le Baiser de la Morte. I teach it to you, for you have very nearly the soul to appreciate it.” His foil darted out to touch my Lord Kestrel lightly over the heart. “For you, milor, no! Ah, no! It is for ze vey few — you may say for zose initiate in ze art of ze duello. You I teach a better management of ze feet.” He frowned fiercely upon Sir Raymond, but his little eyes twinkled. “I instruct zis bad Saire Raymond not to be ze bull at ze gate, hein?”
“Oh, come now, Gally, it’s not so bad as that, surely!” protested Orton blinking.
“It is worse, my frien’. It is of a vileness! For Mistaire Troubridge, I take him sedately, aha? Mr Molyneux not come to play wiz Galliano. He favours ze English school, which is just nozing at all. Mistaire Rensley he wastes my time too. Sapristi, but it is again ze bull at ze gate! I kill him a sousand times. Ten sousand times!”