"So, so," the Colonel answered cheerfully.
"Not strongly, eh? It is not possible."
"Not very strongly," the Colonel assented. His hand, like Bale's, lacked two fingers.
Lemoine muttered something under his breath, and looked at the Colonel with a wrinkled brow. "Tut—tut!" he said, "and how long are you like that, sare?"
"Seven years."
"Pity! pity!" Lemoine exclaimed. Again he looked at his visitor with perplexed eyes. After which, "Dam!" he said suddenly.
The Colonel stared.
"It is not right!" the Frenchman continued, frowning. "I—no! Pardon me, sare, I do not fence with les estropiés. That is downright! That is certain, sare. I do not do it."
If the Colonel had been listening he might have caught the sound of a warning cough, with a stir, and a subdued murmur of voices—all proceeding from the direction of the inner room. But he had his back to the half-opened door and he seemed to be taken up with the fencing-master's change of tone. "But if," he objected, "I am willing to pay for an hour's practice?"
"Another day, sare. Another day, if you will."