“Juist that, John; ye maun gi’e Parus a chance tae laugh at yersel’—howbeit you’ll rin awa’ fra’ the puir lad as a man of honour should.”
“Impossible, Hector.”
“Man, there’s naething impossible tae the son o’ your father, I’m thinkin’!”
Sir John frowned and, crossing to the window, beheld a carriage drawn up in front of the house.
“Robert,” said he, “we’ve visitors, I think; pray show them up here.” Robert departed forthwith and presently reappeared to announce:
“My Lord Cheevely and Monsieur le Duc de Vaucelles.” And into the room tripped two very fine gentlemen enormously bewigged and beruffled, who, having been duly presented to Sir Hector, flourished laced hats and fluttered perfumed handkerchiefs, bowing profoundly.
“Let me die, Sir John,” piped Lord Cheevely. “’Od rabbit me, but ’tis pure joy to see ya’, I vow ’tis! Pray forgive our dem’d sudden intrusion, but our mission is delicate, sir, dooced, infinite delicate, and admits o’ no delay, as my friend Vaucelles will tell ya’!”
“Parfaitement!” quoth Monsieur le Duc, hat a-flourish.
“Briefly and to the point, m’ dear Sir John,” continued his lordship, “we come on behalf of our very good friend, Viscount Templemore, who, with the utmost passible humility i’ the world, begs the honour of a meeting with ya’ at the earliest passible moment.”
“Templemore?” repeated Sir John, tapping smooth forehead with slender finger. “Templemore? I have met him somewhere, I fancy. He is but lately come to Paris, I think, my lord?”