But there was no response in Morice Conyers' eyes.
Since Denningham was here he might as well understand at once that there was a vast difference between the Marquis de Varenac and Beau Conyers of Carlton House fame.
"I have been attending to business," he replied coldly, "and there's more that needs looking after badly. If you take my advice, Denningham, you and Steenie will be returning to England without asking too many questions."
Seeing that a certain laurel-clump was well within earshot of the mulberry-tree, my lord was singularly obtuse.
"Business? Return to England?" he cried, with a merry chuckle. "Why, we've all come on business, and when we're tired of teaching these surly beggars of yours their Marseillaise, I'll warrant we'll all be ready enough for town, and some good jests for our Florizel, to boot. Ha! ha! Yes, we'll all return together afterwards."
But Morice was facing him squarely, and there were no signs of irresolution round the corners of his mouth now.
"As for returning to England, that depends on events," he retorted. "But one thing is certain, Jack,—I'll not be teaching my tenants any of your demned songs of liberty or murder either. I've come to cry: 'God save King Louis, and confound the Red Revolution and all its leaders.'"
He drew himself to his fullest height as he spoke, and looked his quondam friend in the face.
Lord Denningham was neither smiling nor sneering now, but his blue eyes had an ugly expression in them.
"Brittany has evidently had a depressing effect on you," he observed drily. "Come, don't be a fool, Morry. Let's to the house. Steenie is brewing a bowl of punch which will clear your addle-pate. We haven't come here to listen to any demned heroics, but to do business as members of the Corresponding Society."