"But yes! I fight—no more. You cannot—keep your blade—steady—now! Sit down!" He lowered Brenderby into a chair, and whisked out his handkerchief. He bound up Sir Deryk's wound and fetched him a glass of wine from a decanter on the sideboard.
"Thanks!" Sir Deryk gulped it down. "But where are my manners? Pour some for yourself, Jettan! Gad, but you pinked me neatly!" He seemed to slip back into his habitual drawl. "As pretty a piece of sword-play as I wish to see. But you fence French-fashion."
Philip drank some wine.
"Yes. It was at Paris that I learned. With Guillaume Corvoisier."
"No!" Brenderby heaved himself up. "Corvoisier, forsooth! No wonder you're so quick!"
Philip smiled and bowed.
"You frightened me more than once, sir."
"Faith, it wasn't apparent then! You were so intent on winning?"
"It means so much, you see," said Philip simply. "My whole life's happiness."
"What! You really intend to wed Cleone?"