“To-morrow at eight, Westbourn Green,” said Mr. Fitzjohn briefly. “I’ll call for you.”
Peregrine had the oddest sensation that none of this was really happening. He heard his own voice, surprisingly steady, say: “Westbourn Green? Is that near Paddington?”
Mr. Fitzjohn nodded. “Are you a good shot, Perry? The fellow’s chosen pistols.”
“You have seen me at Manton’s—or have you not?”
“I haven’t seen you at Manton’s, but I’ve seen Farnaby,” said Mr. Fitzjohn rather grimly. “You’ll keep a cool head, won’t you, Perry, and remember it’s everything to be quick off the mark?”
There was an unpleasant dryness in Peregrine’s mouth, but he said with a good attempt at nonchalance: “Of course. I shan’t aim to kill him, however.”
“No, don’t,” agreed Mr. Fitzjohn. “Not that I think he means to make it a killing matter either. I can’t see why he should. He’d have to make a bolt for it if he did, and I fancy that wouldn’t suit him. What are you doing to-day?”
Peregrine achieved a shrug of the shoulders. “Oh, the usual round, my dear fellow! I am engaged to dine at the Star, I believe. I daresay we shall look in at the play, and sup at the Piazza afterwards.”
“You’ll do,” said Mr. Fitzjohn approvingly. “But see it ain’t a boozy party, and don’t sit up too late. I’m off to engage a surgeon now. I daresay we shan’t need him, but he’ll have to be there. I like that waistcoat you have on.”
“Yes, I flatter myself it’s uncommonly handsome,” replied Peregrine. He moistened his lips. “Fitz, I have suddenly remembered—do you know, I believe I have no duelling pistols by me?”