“Certainly, sir. I take it I may have to stand my trial?”
“Not at all,” said his grace coldly. “I am still somebody. But you may take it that for some appreciable time to come your residence will be upon the Continent. An affair of honour, conducted honourably, might have been condoned. A pot-house brawl can only be — one trusts — eventually forgotten.”
The Marquis flushed. “One moment, sir. My affairs, whether settled at Barn Elms or in a pot-house, are still honourably conducted.”
“I make you my apologies,” replied Avon, slightly inclining his head. “You must forgive my declining years, which make it difficult for me to appreciate the manners of your generation. In my day we did not fight in gaming-hells, or when we were in our cups.”
“A mistake, sir, I admit. I am sorry for it.”
The Duke looked at him sardonically. “I am not in the least interested in your emotions, Vidal. What I object to is that you have had the impertinence to disturb your mother. That I do not permit. You will leave England at once.”
Vidal was very pale, and a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll stand my trial, I believe.”
The Duke put up his glass and surveyed Vidal through it. “You do not appear to have much understanding of the situation,” he remarked. “You will leave England, not to save your neck, nor because it is my will, but to spare your mother any further anxiety concerning your safety. I trust I make myself plain?”
Vidal looked at him with hard defiant eyes. Then he strode restlessly to the window and back again. “Quite plain. Yet if I say I’ll not go, what then?”
“I should regret the necessity of course, but I should — er — contrive your departure willy-nilly.”