“It would have been very horrible, mother,” he said, in a low voice.
“It would have killed me. Why was it? What was the cause?”
“Oh, it was an affair of honour, mother,” said Frank evasively.
“An affair of honour!” cried Lady Gowan scornfully; “a boy like you daring to speak to me like that! Honour, sir! Where is the honour? It comes of boys like you two, little better than children, being allowed to carry weapons. Do you not know that it is an honour to a gentleman to wear a sword, because it is supposed that he would be the last to draw it, save in some terrible emergency for his defence or to preserve another’s life, and not at the first hasty word spoken? Had you no consideration for me? Could you not see how painful my position is at the court, that you must give me this fresh trouble to bear?”
“Yes, mother; you know how I think of you. I couldn’t help it.”
“Shame! Could not help it! Is this the result of your education—you, growing toward manhood—my son to tell me this unblushingly, to give me this pitiful excuse—you could not help it? Why was it, sir?”
“Well, mother, we quarrelled. Drew is so hot-tempered and passionate.”
“And you are perfectly innocent, and free from all such attributes, I suppose, sir,” cried Lady Gowan sarcastically.
“Oh no, I’m not, mother,” said the lad bluntly, as he felt he would give anything to get away. “I’ve got a nasty, passionate temper; but I’m all right if it isn’t roused and Drew will keep on till he rouses it.”
“Pitiful! Worse and worse!” cried Lady Gowan. “All this arose, I suppose, out of some contemptible piece of banter or teasing. He said something to you, then, that you did not like?”