"Now, of course," went on Vernon, evenly, "I see that no explanations are possible—that no apology, even, which I might make, would excuse me. I don't in the least believe in duelling—I have always thought that I would be the last person in the world to be entangled in that way—but this seems to be one of those situations which have no other solution. I am quite willing, anxious even, to give you any satisfaction you may demand. It is your right."
"I agree with you," said the Prince. "It is my right. My friends will wait upon you," and he turned toward the door.
"But this is folly!" protested Collins, his face very red. "We are living on the verge of the twentieth century, gentlemen; not in the seventeenth. I won't countenance this madness for an instant."
"Who asks you to countenance it?" demanded Vernon, sternly. "I repeat, I am at the Prince's service. I am glad that it is within my power to offer him this reparation."
"Very well," said the Prince, bowing, and again turned to the door; but
Vernon stopped him with a gesture.
"Before you go, before I can meet you, even," he said, quietly, "there is a further explanation due you—"
"I have no wish to hear it," the Prince broke in.
"It is one which you must, nevertheless, listen to," went on Vernon, coldly. "Confession would, perhaps, be a better word for it. Miss Rushford did not know the whole truth."
"So!" said the Prince, with irony. "You acted unfairly, then, even with your co-conspirators!"
Vernon flushed hotly, but kept himself in hand.