“Mr. Deuceace,” says my lady, in a most winning voice, after a little chaffing (in which she only worked him up moar and moar), “may I trouble you for a few of those grapes? they look delicious.”
For answer, master seas'd hold of the grayp dish, and sent it sliding down the table to De l'Orge; upsetting, in his way, fruit-plates, glasses, dickanters, and heaven knows what.
“Monsieur de l'Orge,” says he, shouting out at the top of his voice, “have the goodness to help Lady Griffin. She wanted MY grapes long ago, and has found out they are sour!”
. . . . . .
There was a dead paws of a moment or so.
. . . . . .
“Ah!” says my lady, “vous osez m'insulter, devant mes gens, dans ma propre maison—c'est par trop fort, monsieur.” And up she got, and flung out of the room. Miss followed her, screeching out, “Mamma—for God's sake—Lady Griffin!” and here the door slammed on the pair.
Her ladyship did very well to speak French. DE L'ORGE WOULD NOT HAVE UNDERSTOOD HER ELSE; as it was he heard quite enough; and as the door clikt too, in the presents of me, and Messeers Mortimer and Fitzclarence, the family footmen, he walks round to my master, and hits him a slap on the face, and says, “prends ca, menteur et lache!” which means, “Take that, you liar and coward!”—rayther strong igspreshns for one genlmn to use to another.
Master staggered back and looked bewildered; and then he gave a kind of a scream, and then he made a run at the Frenchman, and then me and Mortimer flung ourselves upon him, whilst Fitzclarence embraced the shevalliay.
“A demain!” says he, clinching his little fist, and walking away, not very sorry to git off.