“No. Putting on airs to be interesting,” replied Mr Ringwood, with brutal candour.
“Dash it, he can’t mean to blow a hole through Sherry!”
“Just what I think myself. Queer I didn’t hear from Lady Sherry, though.”
While this dialogue was in progress, Sherry had cast off his drab driving coat, and buttoned the plain, dark coat he wore under it up to his chin, so that it completely hid his white shirt. He had been careful to choose a coat with small, dark buttons, so that he should afford his adversary no unnecessary mark; and he noticed, with some annoyance, that Lord Wrotham, as though in open contempt of his marksmanship, was wearing the blue and yellow striped waistcoat of the Four Horse Club, and a coat with gleaming silver buttons.
The paces were measured; the principals took up their positions, the duelling pistols, with their ten-inch barrels and hair-triggers set at half cock, pointing earthwards; the seconds retreated eight paces; the doctor turned his back upon the proceedings; and Mr Ringwood took out a handkerchief, and held it up. As it fell, George jerked up his right hand, and deloped. A second later the Viscount’s bullet buried itself in a tree trunk quite three feet to the left of his opponent. The next instant he had lowered his pistol, and said furiously: “Damn you, George, will you stop being noble?”
“Good God, Sherry!” George said, disgustedly surveying the wounded tree, “you can do better than that, dash it, man!”
“Better than that? I meant to hit it!” retorted Sherry, much incensed.
“Who’s being noble now?” demanded George, strolling across the ground to give his pistol up to Mr Ringwood. “You must have been practising. Here you are, Gil!”
Mr Ringwood, too relieved for speech, took the weapon, held out his hand for Sherry’s and restored both to their case. The late antagonists looked at one another measuringly.
“What I’ve a dashed good mind to do,” said Sherry, “is to take my coat off to you, George, and see if I can’t draw your claret! It’s what I ought to have done in the first place!”