'But I should have been called a coward had I declined the challenge; and though I can bear the world's hatred, I could not its contempt:—I could not endure the loss of what the world calls honour.'
'Is it possible,' rejoined Adeline, 'that I hear the philosophical Glenmurray talking thus, in the silly jargon of a man of the world?'
'Alas! I am a man, not a philosopher, Adeline!'
'At least be a sensible one;—consistent I dare not now call you. But have you forgotten the distinction which, in your volume on the subject of duels, you so strongly lay down between real and apparent honour? In which of the two classes do you put the honour of which, in this instance, you were so tenacious? What is there in common between the glory of risking the life of a fellow-creature, and testimony of an approving conscience?'
'An excellent observation that of yours, indeed, my sweet monitress,' said Glenmurray.
'An observation of mine; It is your own,' replied Adeline: 'but see, I have the book in my muff; and I will punish you for the badness of your practice, by giving you a dose of your theory.'
'Cruel girl!' cried Glenmurray, 'I am not ordered a sleeping draught!'
Adeline was however resolved; and, opening the book, she read argument after argument with unyielding perseverance, till Glenmurray, who, like the eagle in the song, saw on the dart that wounded him his own feathers, cried 'Quarter!'
'But tell me, dear Adeline,' said Glenmurray, a little piqued at her too just reproofs, 'you, who are so severe on my want of consistency, are you yourself capable of acting up in every respect to your precepts?'
'After your weakness,' replied Adeline, smiling, 'it becomes me to doubt my own strength; but I assure you that I make it a scruple of conscience, to show by my conduct my confidence in the truth of my opinions.'