“Come, George, let's have something,” whispered Norwood, eagerly; for the vacant and unoccupied stare of Onslow continued to cause the Viscount the most intense anxiety. “These fellows are affecting to be devilish cool. Let us not be behindhand.” And, rather by force than mere persuasion, he dragged Onslow along, and entered the little parlor of the inn.
A large table, covered with the remains of an ample breakfast, stood in the middle of the room, and a dish of cutlets was placed to keep hot before the stove. Several loose sheets of paper lay scattered about the table, on which were scrawled absurd and ill-drawn caricatures of duels, in which attitudes of extravagant fear and terror predominated. Norwood glanced at them for a moment, and then contemptuously threw them into the fire.
“Sit down, George,” said he, placing a chair for the other; “and, if you cannot eat, at least take a 'nip' of brandy. Jekyl will be up, I suppose, in a few minutes. I told him to come with the doctor.”
“I never felt an appetite at this early hour,” said Onslow; “and perhaps the present is not the time to suggest one.”
“Did you remark Guilmard?” said Norwood, as he helped himself to a cutlet, and prepared his plate most artistically for a savory meal. “Did you observe him, George?”
“No; I never looked that way.”
“By Jove! he has got a tremendous scar on his cheek; the whole length, from the eye to the corner of his mouth. English knuckles do not certainly improve French physiognomy. A left-hander, eh?”
“I remember nothing about it,” said Onslow, carelessly.
“Well, you 've left him a memorandum of the transaction, any way,” said the Viscount, as he ate on. “And you were talking about an apology awhile ago?”
“I was wishing that the case admitted of one,” said Onslow, calmly.