Monsieur Bagasse put away his pipe and spectacles, shuffled across the room to shut the door which the cubs had left open, and returning took down a foil and glove to give the lesson. Fisk was buckling on Palmer’s plastron, as the leathern breastplate is called, an operation rather hindered by his sense of the supercilious smile with which Witherlee regarded his efforts from his chair against the wall, as well as by the circumstance of his having his face incased in the wire mask, and his arms hampered by the heavy leather gloves which he was holding with his elbows against his sides. While Monsieur Bagasse waited, standing in an awkward drooping posture, with the foil in his gloved hand, a firm step was heard bounding up the stairs, the door flew open, and, with a light, springing tread, a young man, flushed and smiling, and so handsome that any one would have turned to look at him, darted in, bringing with him a warm gust of fragrance into the chill musty pallor of the room. An odd, fond smile shot at once to the visage of the fencing-master. “Ha, good monning, good monning, Missr Wentwort’,” he chirruped, returning with a military salute the quick gesture of gay cordiality the young man made on entering. “How you feel to-day?” “Capital! most potent, grave and reverend seignior! My very noble and approved good fencing-master, how are you? Hallo, Fernando,” his eye catching sight of the equably-smoking Witherlee: “here you are again, old fellow?” “Just so, Heliogabalus,” coolly drawled the bilious-cynical youth from his chair. “Say, Heliogabalus—do you know how to get that smell out of your clothes? Bury ’em!” There was a decided flavor of verjuice in the manner of Witherlee, as he let fly this borrowed jest at the perfumed raiment of the other. Wentworth, though he took it as a jest, could not help wincing a little at it, and was made even more uncomfortable at the application to him of the name of one of the most bestial of the Roman Emperors. “Well, Fernando,” he returned with a smile, “if ever there was a prickly cactus, you’re one. You’re a perfect Diogenes. Get a tub, Fernando, do.” “Quarte and tierce, Heliogabalus,” responded the cool Fernando, with his turtle-husky chuckle.