“It is a chance I do not covet, M. Binet. Shall we change the subject?” He was very frosty, as much perhaps because he scented in M. Binet’s manner something that was vaguely menacing as for any other reason.
“We’ll change the subject when I please,” said M. Binet, allowing a glimpse of steel to glimmer through the silk of him. “To-morrow night you play Scaramouche. You are ready enough in your wits, your figure is ideal, and you have just the kind of mordant humour for the part. You should be a great success.”
“It is much more likely that I should be an egregious failure.”
“That won’t matter,” said Binet, cynically, and explained himself. “The failure will be personal to yourself. The receipts will be safe by then.”
“Much obliged,” said Andre-Louis.
“We should take fifteen louis to-morrow night.”
“It is unfortunate that you are without a Scaramouche,” said Andre-Louis.
“It is fortunate that I have one, M. Parvissimus.”
Andre-Louis disengaged his arm. “I begin to find you tiresome,” said he. “I think I will return.”
“A moment, M. Parvissimus. If I am to lose that fifteen louis... you’ll not take it amiss that I compensate myself in other ways?”