"And do you foolishly imagine that I am going to ask him to explain why he took upon himself to carry away my daughter?" The question was scornful enough.
"Signor Conte," I protested, "you would do well to see them, for she is your daughter, after all."
"She is not my daughter any longer," growled the count. "She is married to a singer, a tenor, an Italian with curls and lies and grins, as you all have. Fie!" And he pulled his moustache again.
"A singer," said I, "if you like, but a great singer, and an honest man."
"Oh, I did not come here to listen to your praises of that scoundrel!" he exclaimed, hotly. "I have seen enough of him to be sick of him."
"I wish he were in this room to hear you call him by such names," I said; for I began to grow angry, as I sometimes do, and then my fear grows small and my heart grows big.
"Ah!" said he, ironically. "And pray, what would he do to me?"
"He would probably ask you again for that pistol you refused to lend him the other day." I thought I might as well show that I knew all about the meeting in the road. But Lira laughed grimly, and the idea of a fight seemed to please him.
"I would not refuse it this time. In fact, since you mention it, I think I will go and offer it to him now. Do you think I should be justified, Master Censor?"
"No," said I, coming forward and facing him. "But if you like you can fight me. I am your own age, and a better match." I would have fought him then and there, with the chairs, if he had liked.