“Parcequ’ils sont vos inférieurs,” replied the French lady.
Jack did like the reply, it sounded harsh, he did not believe it was true; James beat him at marbles, and could make popguns and cut out boats, and had talents and virtues innumerable.
Jack loved the hall-boy, and had once got into dreadful disgrace by taking his place and answering the door, to let his friend go round the corner.
As he was being driven upstairs by the governess he heard the voice of Brancepeth arguing with a footman; the young man was insisting that they should let him in, and the servants were apologizing, her Grace’s orders had been positive. Jack, with a leap like a chamois’s, rushed downstairs and leaped into his friend’s arms.
“Well, your Grace,” said Brancepeth, as he kissed the child, “how is my lord duke, eh?”
Brancepeth had not been allowed to go down to Staghurst, even for the funeral; he had been desired to allege military duties as an obstacle, and had done so, though he thought it brutally uncivil to poor Cocky.
Jack laughed; his rosy face was bright above his black jersey; but he tried to look serious, as he had been told that he ought to do.
“Mammy says we must not laugh,” he said sorrowfully. “Come in here.”
He pulled his favorite by the hand into the library.
“He’s deaded you know,” he whispered solemnly.