"I've been miserable for the last few days. I—I missed you, Man."
"And I you, Boy."
"What an awful pity it is I've got to stand up and be shot, just as we're good friends again, and everything's all right!"
"You've got to do nothing of the sort. Le cher Paolo will, if he is really in earnest and not bluffing, send his friend to me, and matters will be settled, never fear."
"I don't fear. At least, I—hope I don't—much. Only I wasn't brought up to expect challenges to duels. They're not—in my line. But I won't apologise, whatever happens. No, I won't, I won't, I won't. I dare say it doesn't hurt much, being shot; and I suppose he wouldn't be so—so impolite as to shoot me in the face, would he?"
"He is not going to shoot you anywhere," said I.
"I am glad I told you. I was feeling—rather queer. What am I to do? Am I to go back to the villa as if nothing had happened, or—what?"
"'What' might mean coming to my hotel, but you seemed to find my society a bore."
"That's unkind. It was your own fault that I went to a different hotel at Châtelard."
"How do you make that out?"