“But, Charley—”
The old gentleman whispered a few words in his son’s ear.
“No,” said Charley, shaking his head; “there will be none of that. If I were to knock Max Bray down,” he said, with scornful contempt, “he would send for a policeman. My dear father, you are thinking of your own days: men do not fight duels now in England. Let us go out now—this place seems to stifle me. But don’t be alarmed, sir; if I am beaten in the race, whether it be by fair running or a foul, I shall give up. I know that I have run the course in a manly straightforward manner, according to my own convictions, and as, father, I felt that I must. But the running is nearly over, sir, and I shall give you little more pain.”
“Charley, my dear boy—” began Sir Philip.
“Hush, father!” said Charley, checking him. “The time has nearly come for burying the past. Let us hope that some day the grass may grow green and pleasant-looking over its grave. At present, I see nothing but a black yawning pit—one which I shrink from approaching.”
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Five.
Coming Round.
“From the Brays, Charley?” said Sir Philip, as they sat over their breakfast at Long’s about a month after the meeting in Branksome-street.