"I shall send my friend to him in the morning," said M. Barbiche calmly, as leaning on Lord Spunyarn's arm he left the ball-room. "I suppose you will act for him?"
"Don't know, I'm sure. I'm not up to these things, but I don't see why you should shoot each other over it."
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders as he stepped into his perfectly-appointed but funereal-looking little brougham. As he drove home he meditated on his wrongs, and in his heart of hearts he swore that four-and-twenty hours should not elapse ere the insult should be avenged by his own skilful hand.
CHAPTER XI.
A MEETING IN THE GOOD OLD STYLE.
Lord Spunyarn woke with a very bad headache indeed, the morning after the ball at Papayani's. He hurried to commence his dressing, for his valet on awakening him had presented a thin and varnished card, bearing a portentous coronet and the name of the Comte de Kerguel. The man told him that the visitor had come on business of the most urgent nature. What his business was, Spunyarn was well aware. Knowing that, next to getting married, a Frenchman looks upon the delivery of a hostile message, as the most important, pleasant, and serious event of life; Spunyarn wisely dressed himself with care and deliberation. When he entered his sitting-room M. de Kerguel rose and profoundly saluted him.