"Anything more, Zeb?"
"Aye, m' lud. Your hand on your p'int's for ever out o' the line and your finger-play——" The Sergeant shook his head again.
"Devil burn it, Zeb! I begin to think I don't sound over-promising. And yet—Gad love me, Sergeant, but you've no form, no style, y' know, pasitively none! In the schools they'd laugh at your play and call it mighty unmannerly."
"Belike they would, sir. But 'tis the schools as is the matter wi' you and so many other modish gentlemen, same be all froth and flourish. But flourishes though taking to the eye, is slow m' lud, slow."
"Nay, I've seen some excellent fencing in the schools, Zeb, such poise o' bady, such grace——"
"Grace is very well, m' lud—in a school. But 'tis one thing to play a veney wi' blunted weapons and another to fight wi' the sharps."
"True, Zeb, though La Touche teacheth in his book——"
"Book!" exclaimed the Sergeant and snorted.
"Hm!" said the Viscount, smiling, "howbeit in these next three days, I'd have you teach me all you can of your—unmannerly method."
"And wherefore three days, sir?"