Monpavon must indeed have been deeply moved to show himself thus devoid
of all prestige. In point of fact, with white lips and a changed voice
he addressed the doctor quickly, without the lisp this time, and in a
single outburst:

"Come now, _mon cher_, no tomfoolery between us, eh? We are both met
before the same dish, but I leave you your share. I intend that you
shall leave me mine."

And Jenkins's air of astonishment did not make him pause. "Let this be
said once for all. I have promised the Nabob to present him to the duke,
just as, formerly, I presented you. Do not mix yourself up, therefore,
with what concerns me alone."

Jenkins laid his hand on his heart, protested his innocence. He had
never had any intention. Certainly Monpavon was too intimate a friend of
the duke, for any other--How could he have supposed?

"I suppose nothing," said the old nobleman, calmer but still cold.
"I merely desired to have a very clear explanation with you on this
subject."

The Irishman extended a widely opened hand.

"My dear marquis, explanations are always clear between men of honour."

"Honour is a big word, Jenkins. Let us say people of deportment--that
suffices."

And that deportment, which he invoked as the supreme guide of conduct,