“Stop you!” echoed Sir Roland. “You flung a glass of wine in the fellow’s face before anyone knew what you was about.”
The Viscount brooded, and presently sat up again with a jerk. “By God, I’m glad I did it! You heard what he said, Pom?”
“Drunk, belike,” offered Sir Roland.
“There’s not a word of truth in it,” said the Viscount with grim meaning. “Not a word, Pom, d’you take me?”
“Lord, Pel, no one ever thought there was! Ain’t one fight enough for you?”
The Viscount grinned rather sheepishly and leaned back against the bed-head. “What’s it to be? Swords or pistols?”
“Swords,” replied Sir Roland. “We don’t want to make it a killing matter. Fixed it all up for you out at Barn Elms, Monday at six.”
The Viscount nodded, but seemed a trifle abstracted. He discarded the wet towel and looked wisely across at his friend. “I was drunk, Pom, that’s the tale.”
Sir Roland, who had resumed the use of his toothpick, let it fall in his surprise, and gasped: “You’re never going to back out of it, Pel?”
“Back out of it?” said the Viscount. “Back out of a fight? Burn it, if I didn’t know you for a fool, Pom, I’d thrust that down your gullet, so I would!”