Galliano tossed up his arms. “Ensusiasm! Bah, it was bad, bad — all of it! You English you do not understand ze art! But just once or twice zere was a pass I might myself have make! Do not flatter yourself! You cannot fence: not even you, Saire Anthony!”
Chapter 17
Sad Falling Out of Friends
By the afternoon the news was all over town that Fanshawe had wounded Rensley in a duel that had taken place that morning in Galliano’s rooms, of all places in the world. Every sort of tale was told. Fanshawe had taken leave of his senses and struck Rensley across the face with his glove: no, it was Rensley struck Fanshawe; faith, it must have been that way, for everyone knew that it was not like Fanshawe to pick a quarrel. The affair had sprung up out of a clear sky: there had been some raillery which Rensley took exception to, and Fanshawe had carried it too far.
Mr Belfort heard it from my Lord Kestrel, and was thunderstruck. My lord told it him between chuckles and with many embellishments, and described, with gesture, the thrust that had put Rensley out of action for many weeks to come. Mr Belfort went hurrying off to confer with Mr Devereux, whom he found writing execrable verse to a lady of uncertain morals, and bore him off straight to Arlington Street.
My lady laughed when the message was brought to Prudence, but Robin looked queerly, and showed a desire to inquire further into the need for a private conference. Prudence said lightly that it was some matter concerning a horse, and escaped before Robin could read the trouble in her face. He had the uncanny knack of it.
She found Mr Belfort looking portentous, and Mr Devereux melancholy. “Why, Charles, what ails you?” she asked. It seemed to her that there was no one but herself had the right to look solemn.
“My dear fellow, it’s the devil of a business,” Belfort said severely. “A most disgraceful affair, ’pon my soul!”
Mr Devereux shook his head. “Very, very disgraceful,” he echoed.
“Lud, sir, you horrify me! What’s toward?”