“Indeed, so am I,” rejoined Archie, pleased at having turned the conversation so deftly, “for you cannot think what strange things happen to a man who has no recognized place in the minds of respectable people.”
James rolled over on his chest, leaning on his elbows, and looked up at his companion sitting just above him with his dark, silky head clear cut against the background of green bush. The young man’s words seemed to trip out and pirouette with impudent jauntiness in their hearer’s face. Logie did not know that Archie’s management of these puppets was a part of his charm. His detached points of view were restful to a man like James, one continually preoccupied by large issues. It was difficult to think of responsibilities in Archie’s presence.
“You might never imagine how much I am admired below stairs!” said the latter. “While I painted a lady in the south, I was expected to eat with the servants, and the attentions of a kitchen-girl all but cost me my life. I found a challenge, offering me the choice of weapons in the most approved manner, under my dish of porridge. It came from a groom.”
“What did you do?” asked James, astounded.
“I chose warming-pans,” said Archie, “and that ended the matter.”
James laughed aloud, but there was bitterness in his mirth. And this was a man born at St. Germain!
“We laugh,” said he, “but such a life could have been no laughing matter to you.”
“But I assure you it was! What else could I do?”
“You could have left the place——” began James. Then he stopped short, remembering that beggars cannot be choosers.