“Monsieur Nouveau, you are not wise. But some day you will learn better, when you are no longer a nouveau,” said Clifford, kindly. The man looked puzzled, but kept his fists up.
“Now I am going to punish you a little,” proceeded Clifford, in even tones, “not harshly, but with firmness, for your good,” he added, walking straight up to the Frenchman.
The latter struck heavily at Clifford’s head, but he ducked like a flash, and catching his antagonist around the waist, carried him, kicking, to the water-basin, where he turned on the water and shoved the squirming Frenchman under. The scene was painful, but brief; when one of the actors in it emerged from under the water-spout, he no longer asked for anybody’s blood.
“Go and dry yourself,” said Clifford, cheerfully; and walking over to his easel, sat down and began to work.
In ten minutes, all trace of the row had disappeared, excepting that one gentleman’s collar looked rather limp and his hair was uncommonly sleek. The men worked steadily. Snatches of song and bits of whistling rose continuously from easel and taboret, all blending in a drowsy hum. Gethryn and Elliott caught now and then, from behind them, words of wisdom which Clifford was administering to the now subdued Rowden.
“Yes,” he was saying, “many a man has been injured for life by these Frenchmen for a mere nothing. I had two brothers,” he paused, “and my golden-haired boy—” he ceased again, apparently choking with emotion.
“But—I say—you’re not married, you know,” said the Englishman.
“Hush,” sighed Clifford, “I—I—married the daughter of an African duke. She was brought to the States by a slave trader in infancy.”
“Black?” gasped Mr Rowden.
“Very black, but beautiful. I could not keep her. She left me, and is singing with Haverley’s Minstrels now.”