The gentleman evidently regretted his imprudence, and would have withdrawn himself from view. The shirt and shoulders had already disappeared behind the screening of the lintel; but, before the head could be backed in, I had stepped over the threshold and “nailed him” to an interview.
“Monsieur Despard, I believe?” was the interrogative style of my salutation.
“Oui, M’sseu. What is your business?”
“Rather a strange question for you to put, Monsieur Despard. Perhaps you do not remember me?”
“Perfectly.”
“And what occurred at our first interview?”
“Equally well—that you were accompanied by a drunken brute who calumniated me.”
“It is not becoming to vilify a gentleman after he has given you his card. Of course you intend to challenge him?”
“Of course I intend nothing of the sort. Parbleu! M’sseu, I should have a busy time of it, were I to notice the babble of every drunken brawler. I can pardon the slang of sling drinkers.”
I had discovered by this time that Monsieur Despard spoke English as fluently as he did French, and also that he was perfectly versed in the slang epithets of our language.