With the ridiculous noise of a firecracker a pistol went off. D’Arcy, lowering his right hand, raised and shook the left. The delicate material of the glove had reddened, and on the ground specks of crimson dropped.
“Four! Five!”
D’Arcy’s left hand fell back. He raised the right.
“Six! Seven! Eight!”
Measuredly, monotonously, but more loudly than before, the final numbers were being called. Infinitesimally the point of d’Arcy’s pistol moved. His heels were no longer drawn together. His right hand was held less high. His left hand burned. Otherwise he was entirely at his ease.
He had withstood Barouffski’s fire. It was Barouffski’s turn to withstand his. He had time and to spare. Slowly, coolly, deliberately, he was taking aim.
It was very agreeable. He was smiling. He was enjoying himself. He was enjoying Barouffski’s presumable suspense. He was savouring his equally presumable agitations. The man’s face had turned ashen. The fact that it had, that he could see it had, delighted him. He felt sure of himself, and his thoughts were pleasant.
He was thinking: “That glass of wine of yours was the last you will ever ask me or any one else to drink.”
He had become aware of Leilah’s presence. That, too, delighted him. If he had a regret, it was that Tempest, the Silverstairs, all the demi-mondaines and exotics of the night before, the Bohemians to boot, the waiters as well, were not present also. Though in appearance divine, at heart he was human.
Again, imperceptibly, the point of his pistol moved.