false?" she faltered.

"Monsieur should not have been born so high. He could have made little
book'."

"You mean it is false?" she cried breathlessly.

"'Od's blood, is she not convinced?" broke out Mr. Bantison. "Fellow,
were you not the ambassador's barber?"

"It is all false?" she whispered.

"The mos' fine art, mademoiselle. How long you think it take M. de
Winterset to learn that speech after he write it out? It is a mix of
what is true and the mos' chaste art. Monsieur has become a man of
letters. Perhaps he may enjoy that more than the wars. Ha, ha!"

Mr. Bantison burst into a roar of laughter. "Do French gentlemen
fight lackeys? Ho, ho, ho! A pretty country! We English do as was done
to-night, have our servants beat them."

"And attend ourselves," added M. Beaucaire, looking at the Duke,
"somewhat in the background? But, pardon," he mocked, "that remind' me.
Francois, return to Mr. Bantison and these gentlemen their weapons."

"Will you answer a question?" said Molyneux mildly.

"Oh, with pleasure, monsieur."

"Were you ever a barber?"