“And is it at eighty-three that men fight duels?”
“' Not if they can help it, Tom, certainly. I have never been out since I shot Tom Connelly in the knee, which was a matter of forty years ago, and I had good hopes it was to be my last exploit of this kind. But what is to be done if a man tells you that your age is your protection; that if it had not been for your white hairs and your shaking ankles, that he 'd have resented your conduct or your words to him? Faith, I think it puts a fellow on his mettle to show that his heart is all right, though his hand may tremble.”
“I 'll not take any share in such a folly. I tell you, Barrington, the world for whom you are doing this will be the very first to scout its absurdity. Just remember for a moment we are not living in the old days before the Union, and we have not the right, if we had the power, to throw our age back into the barbarism it has escaped from.”
“Barbarism! The days of poor Yelverton, and Ponsonby, and Harry Grattan, and Parsons, and Ned Lysaght, barbarism! Ah! my dear Tom, I wish we had a few of such barbarians here now, and I 'd ask for another bottle or two of that port.”
“I'll not give it a milder word; and what's more, I'll not suffer you to tarnish a time-honored name by a folly which even a boy would be blamed for. My dear old friend, just grant me a little patience.”
“This is cool, certainly,” said Barrington, laughing. “You have said all manner of outrageous things to me for half an hour unopposed, and now you cry have patience.”
“Give me your honor now that this shall not go further.”
“I cannot, Tom,—I assure you, I cannot.”
“What do you mean by 'you cannot'?” cried Withering, angrily.
“I mean just what I said. If you had accepted a man's brief, Tom Withering, there is a professional etiquette which would prevent your giving it up and abandoning him; and so there are situations between men of the world which claim exactly as rigid an observance. I told Stapylton I would be at his orders, and I mean to keep my word.”