“Gentlemen, this is no place to fight. Let us have explanations—” began Ugo, addressing Quentin more than Savage, but the latter interrupted:
“Call off your dogs and we will talk it over,” he said.
“Dickey!” cautioned his friend.
“I do not understand you, Mr. Savage. My dogs? Oh, I see, Mr. Quentin; he is mad with anger,” said the prince, deprecatingly.
“There can be no explanations,” snarled Kapolski. “My card, Monsieur,” and he threw the pasteboard in the young American's face.
“Damn your impudence,” exploded Quentin, now ready to take the fight off the hands of the one on whom it had been forced through error. “You ought to be kicked downstairs for that.”
“You will have that to recall, Monsieur, but not until after I have disposed of your valiant friend,” exclaimed Kapolski.
“We are not in the habit of waiting for a chance to dispose of such affairs,” said Quentin, coolly. “We fight when we have a cause and on the spot.”
“Do you expect civilized men to carry arms into drawing-rooms?” sneered Kapolski. Ugo's face was lighting up with pleasure and satisfaction and Sallaconi was breathing easier.
“I'm speaking of hands, not arms,” said Phil, glaring at the other.