"At your service," replied the young Man, with a lightness of manner which was obviously forced and a great show of Haughtiness and of Insolence. "My friend Lord Douglas here, has allowed me the privilege of chastising a common Mountebank for daring to raise his eyes to the Lady Barbara Wychwoode——"
At mention of the Lady's name, I felt Mr. Betterton's clutch on my arm tighten convulsively.
"Does she——" he queried, "does she—know?"
"I forbid You," interposed Lord Douglas curtly, "to mention my Sister's name in the matter."
"'Tis to my Lord Stour I am speaking," rejoined Mr. Betterton more firmly. Then he added: "You will give me satisfaction for this outrage, my Lord——"
"Satisfaction?" riposted his Lordship coolly. "What do you mean?"
"One of us has got to die because of this," Mr. Betterton said loudly.
Whereupon my Lord Stour burst into a fit of hilarious laughter, which sounded as callous as it was forced.
"A Duel?" he almost shrieked, in a rasping voice. "Ha! ha! ha! a Duel!!!—a duel with You? ... With Tom Betterton, the Son of a Scullion.... By my faith! 'tis the best joke you ever made, Sir Actor ... 'tis worth repeating upon the Stage!"
But the injured Man waited unmoved until his Lordship's laughter died down in a savage Oath. Then he said calmly: