“No, I dare say not, but I thought I might just mention the matter,” he said carelessly. “And if it did, I wouldn’t wish you to fret about it, you know.”
“No, no, I won’t!” she promised. “Only don’t talk in that way, Sherry, for even though I know nothing will happen to you I do not like it!”
“Silly little puss!” he said, pinching her nose. “Did you enjoy the play?”
“Oh, I did!”
“Well, I’m glad of that, at all events,” he said, and on this altruistic thought took himself upstairs to bed.
His cousin Ferdy called at the house for him at a chill, slightly misty hour on the following morning. The Viscount was quite ready for him, and except that he looked a trifle more serious than was customary, he seemed to be in good spirits. He jumped up into the tilbury beside Ferdy, his many-caped greatcoat buttoned up to his throat, and asked briskly: “Got the pistols?”
“Gil has,” replied Ferdy. He added: “Thought we had best engage a surgeon too, just in case .... Still, I dare say he won’t be needed.”
“You never know,” said the Viscount. “Mist’s lifting nicely. Couldn’t have had a better morning for it!”
They arrived at the appointed meeting-place to find George and Mr Ringwood already upon the ground. The two principals exchanged formal bows. The seconds, inspecting the deadly weapons, held a short, whispered colloquy.
“George said anything to you?” asked Ferdy.