“Who is this Mornay?”
Captain Cornbury paused to kindle his tobago.
“Mornay is of the Embassy of France, at any game of chance the luckiest blade in the world and a Damon for success with the petticoats, whether they’re doxies or duchesses.”
“Soho! a pretty fellow.”
“A French chevalier—a fellow of the Marine; but a die juggler—a man of no caste,” sneered Mr. Wynne.
“He has a wit with a point.”
“Ay, and a rapier, too,” said Lord Downey.
“The devil fly with these foreign lady-killers,” growled Wynne again.
“Oh, Mornay is a man-killer, too, never fear. He’s not named Bras-de-Fer for nothing,” laughed Cornbury.
“Bah!” said a voice near the door. “A foundling—an outcast—a man of no birth—I’ll have no more of him.”