"This from you? By Jove, De Vere, I wish you and I could live a hundred years, to see a republican aristocrat. We are still mere provincials," added Dalton, with a sigh.
Denslow perspired with mortification.
"You use me badly,—I tell you, Dalton, this Rosecouleur is a devil. Condescend to him! be haughty and—what do you call it?—urbane to him! I defy you to do it, with all your impudence. Why, his valet, that shadow that glides after him, is too much for me. Try him yourself, man."
"Who, the valet?"
"No, the master,—though I might have said the valet."
"Did I yield in Paris?"
"No, but you were of the embassy, and—and—no one really knew us, you know."
Dalton pressed his lips hard together.
"Come," said he, "De Vere, let us try a fall with this Titan of the carpet."
Denslow hastened back to the Duke. I followed Dalton; but as for me, bah!
I am a cipher.