“Cleverly turned, cleverly done,” said Withering; “but you were not to be deceived and drawn off by that feint, eh?”
“Feint or not, it succeeded, Tom. He made me feel that I had injured him; and as he would not accept of my excuses,—as, in fact, he did not give me time to make them—”
“He got you into a quarrel, is n't that the truth?” asked Withering, hotly.
“Come, come, Tom, be reasonable; he had perfect right on his side. There was what he felt as a very grave imputation upon him; that is, I had made a charge, and his explanation had not satisfied me,—or, at all events, I had not said I was satisfied,—and we each of us, I take it, were somewhat warmer than we need have been.”
“And you are going to meet him,—going to fight a duel?”
“Well, if I am, it will not be the first time.”
“And can you tell for what? Will you be able to make any man of common intelligence understand for what you are going out?”
“I hope so. I have the man in my eye. No, no, don't make a wry face, Tom. It's another old friend I was thinking of to help me through this affair, and I sincerely trust he will not be so hard to instruct as you imagine.”
“How old are you, Barrington?”
“Dinah says eighty-one; but I suspect she cheats me. I think I am eighty-three.”