"Miss Mainwaring, the lady in question, pays daily and nighty visits to these low purlieus. Charity is made the pretext, of course."
The dance was over, and the hour for departure drew on.
Leslie Travers watched his opportunity, and lay in wait for Sir Maxwell in one of the lobbies.
He was passing him with a lady on his arm, when Leslie said:
"A word with you, sir, in private. I demand an apology for the shameful lies you are circulating. They are lies, and——"
"Softly, softly, my dear boy; let the presence of a lady be remembered."
"Oh! pray let us have no high words!" the lady said. "For mercy's sake, don't quarrel, gentlemen!"
"Madam," Leslie Travers said, in an excited voice, "you have heard the basest slanders uttered against—against one whom I would not name in such company. Look you, sir," Leslie said, seizing the velvet sleeve of Sir Maxwell's coat—"look you, sir; you have been a liar, and you are now a coward. I will prove it."
"Come, come, gentlemen; no brawling here," said the master of the ceremonies, bustling up. "Settle your matters elsewhere. A man of honour has his remedy."
"Precisely!" said Sir Maxwell, who was white with rage. "Precisely! And as to you, poor boy—poor insensate boy—I will send my answer to your private residence as befits a gentleman; but I decline to brawl here. Move off, sir, I say!"