True, Denningham and Sir Stephen had promised to follow, after the former had had time to deal with a little private business of his which concerned a lady and needed delicate handling.
Ha, ha! A bit of a rake, old Jack, but a demned good fellow! Not such a convivial spirit as Steenie, though.
Good old Steenie! He was the chap needed on such an occasion as the present, to troll out a song, and brew a bowl of punch when they arrived at this confounded Manor of his, which was probably as mouldy and rat-run as it was aristocratic.
And little Marcel? What in the world did he want tearing off to Paris instead of accompanying him?
Going to bring a horde of red-caps with him, was he?
The tune of "Ça ira" would sound strangely foreign to English lips, but they were good fellows, these, from all accounts. Rough, perhaps, in their pulling down, but equally ready to build up that new altar to liberty and fraternity.
All the same a picture of these same shouting, sweating Parisians with red hands, red hearts, red death as well as caps to be brought along with them, was scarcely to the taste of a gentleman.
Marcel should not have gone to Paris. There would be men enough to sing to Goddess Liberty in Brittany after the Marquis de Varenac had given the lead.
The Marquis de Varenac!
A vastly imposing title.