"I would sooner be that, sir, than an impudent, painted puppy."
Under his powder Bancroft was fiery red.
"I see you will have it, Mr. Jettan. I will meet you when and where you will."
Philip patted his sword-hilt, and Bancroft observed for the first time that he was wearing a sword.
"I have noticed, Mr. Bancroft, that you habitually don your sword. So I took the precaution of wearing mine. 'When' is now, and 'where' is yonder!" He pointed above the hedge that encircled the garden to the copse beyond. It was a very fine theatrical effect, and he was pleased with it.
Bancroft sneered at him.
"A trifle countrified, Mr. Jettan. Do you propose to dispense with such needless formalities as seconds?"
"I think we can trust each other," said Philip grandly.
"Then pray lead the way," bowed Bancroft.
What followed was not so fine. Bancroft was proficient in the art of the duello; Philip had never fought in his life. Fencing had never interested him, and Sir Maurice had long since despaired of teaching him anything more than the rudiments. However, he was very angry and very reckless, while Bancroft thought to play with him. He thrust so wildly and so insanely that Bancroft was taken unawares and received a fine slash across the arm. After that he fenced more carefully, and in a very short time pinked Philip neatly and artistically above the elbow of his sword arm. As Philip's blade wavered and fell, he wiped his own on his handkerchief, sheathed it, and bowed.