If the whole constitution of France had been represented in Gaston’s small person, and if the quarrel with Hubert had assumed properties of international warfare, racial feeling could not have run higher in the worthy rustic’s breast.
“A pretty joke indeed!” they declared, “to have that young Frenchy knocking one of our little gentlemen about.”
And what a fuss Mrs. Busson made over the injured hero; whilst Ruth was careful to remark within Gaston’s hearing, that it was a great mercy that Master Hubert’s eye had been not hurt, for folks got sent to prison and kept there for less than that very often.
Hubert himself made no fuss at all. He was so delighted to possess anything so entirely un-nurserylike as a black eye, that he obstinately refused all Mrs. Busson’s offers of raw beef applications for the purpose of abating the swelling; and when he discovered that the “pomade divine” with which Fay had promptly anointed his temple, was supposed to reduce the discolouration of the bruises, he scrubbed it off with more energy than he had ever bestowed on his face before.
“But Hubert, didn’t it hurt you dreffully?” asked Marygold.
“Nothing to matter,” he said, “but of course you girls don’t under—”
“Oh! no,” began Andrew, teasingly, “it wasn’t the black eye that he minded, was it, Hubert. It was—”
“You’re not to say it,” shouted Hubert, crimson with rage. Andrew had jeered him so unmercifully all the morning, for having been slobbered like a nice little baby-girl, that he was in absolute terror lest Di should hear of it, for Diana’s teasing was quite as merciless as the boys’.
“If you say one word,” cried Hubert, swelling with rage, “I’ll ki—”
“Yes, shut up, Andrew,” interposed Jack. “It’s a shame to rag the poor chap, any more.”