"Not St. Quentin's service, or—one that he would not perform."
"Eh? What are you getting to, Rockwell?"
The divine advanced with large solemnity to where the young man sat, bent over him, and said, in a broad whisper: "Now look you, Fairfield, there's a certain ceremony of which the law takes no count, certain words being left out.—A lady would accept it—" He stepped back a pace. "When you desire such a service, terms might be got at between us. Once in England with your bride, the marriage growing cold—" he waved his hand, shook his head, and so finished the proposition.
Sir Charles gave him a long look. The color had left his face. He rose slowly, turned his back for a moment, and took a pinch of snuff. As he faced the other again he remarked, without much expression: "What a cool-headed beast you are, Rockwell."
"Sir!"
"Yes. But don't fight me to-day. That service—" he stopped, unwilling to go on.
"You may want it yet," finished the rector, insinuatingly.
But Fairfield did not commit himself. Before he had a chance to reply a servant of the house opened the door.
"Beg pardon, sirs, but young Mr. Carroll and Mr.—the Frencher, are below, and, not being regulars—"
"Yes, yes, show them up at once," cried the lieutenant, with relief in his tone.