Always—always—always.
CHAPTER XVIII
MY LORD AWAITS HIS HOST
"A fine host," sneered my Lord Denningham, with an oath,—"a right jovial and noble host, eh, Steenie? Demme it, man! I didn't come to this old rat-trap to look at you, and be poisoned with ragouts au Bourbon and cold shoulders à Varenac. What in the world is friend Morice up to?"
"Split me if I know," growled Sir Stephen, who was far from being in the most amiable of moods himself.
"He and Marcel started the day before we did, and we should have found him here on arrival. Something must have befallen him."
"The devil flown away with him en route? Hardly likely, my friend, when you consider everything."
"He may have gone to Paris with Trouet."
"That's not Trouet's game—no, no, no. More likely a saucy pair of eyes or a neat waist. Some of these little Bretonnes are worth kissing; I've honoured more than one already. But kissing should not be taken seriously when there is work on hand, and the orders of the London Corresponding Society should be obeyed."