“There she goes again—the green favour! Look! Is it for her you have mistaken me? Wretch, hold your wicked hand!”
As by one consent, the two belligerents lowered their points. The figure, which had once before revealed itself hurrying past, was again come into view, walking this time with a gentleman, about whose hat was wound a scarf of green sarcenet.
Hamilton gaped, a surprised grin on his face. Already somewhat confounded by his cousin’s appeal to him, this suggestion of a further entanglement seemed fairly to take his breath away. Was the coincidence accidental or deliberate? And, if the latter, what the mischief was at the bottom of it all? He might have thought “who,” rather, but that was superfluous. There could be only one. Anyhow, being in for it, he would make the best he could of circumstance. For the rest, he was rather tickled with the hussy’s impudent daring, and curious to see how her plot worked out. Where was she herself? he wondered. Somewhere watching the game, no doubt.
But, as for my lord, he stared like one petrified. All his assurance was knocked out of him. He looked—goggle-eyed and gasping like a landed fish—from his adversary to the lady, and from the lady to Hamilton, and again from them both to the rapidly receding couple. It seemed minutes before he could find his voice.
“But—but——” he said, and stuck again.
“Very well, sir,” said Hamilton. “Take your guard.”
But the other, with a muttered oath, slipped his blade into its scabbard.
“I’m damned if I do!” he said, and looked stupidly at the lady. “You called him Kit, you know,” he muttered.
“And why not?” she said. “Is he to be killed for being christened?”
“You may realize by now, sir,” said Hamilton, “that you have made an error. If I may suggest, the way to rectify it is by not imposing yourself longer on our company.”