“Sophy,” said Mr. Rivenhall, descending rapidly from the autocratic to the merely threatening, “if you dare to have your saddle put upon my Thunderer, I will strangle you, and throw your body into the Serpentine!”
She gave the gurgle of laughter that never failed to bring’ his twisted grin into being. “Oh, no, Charles, would you indeed? Well, I do not blame you! If ever I find you astride Salamanca, I shall certainly shoot you — and I can make allowance for a gun that throws a little left!”
“Yes?” said Mr. Rivenhall. “Well, my dear cousin, when we go down to Ombersley, I shall derive much satisfaction from watching your marksmanship! You shall show me what you can do with my dueling pistols. They do not throw left, or even right. I am rather nice in the choice of my weapons!”
“Dueling pistols!” said Sophy, much impressed. “I had not thought it of you, Charles! How many times have you been out? Do you always kill your man?”
“Rarely!” he retorted. “Dueling has gone sadly out of fashion, dear Sophy! I am so sorry to be obliged to disappoint you!”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I had no real expectation of hearing that you had done anything so dashing!”
That made him laugh. He flung up a hand, in the gesture of a swordsman acknowledging a hit. “Very well, Sophy! Touché!”
“Do you fence?”
“Indifferently. Why?”
“Oh, merely that it is something I have never learnt!”