Rapidly the cunning hand of the surgeon ran over Abbott’s body. He finally shook his head. “Nothing has touched him. His heart gave under. Fainted.”
When Abbott came to his senses, he smiled weakly. The Barone was one of the two who helped him to his feet.
“I feel like a fool,” he said.
“Ah, let me apologize now,” said the Barone. “What I did at the ball was wrong, and I should not have lost my temper. I had come to you to apologize then. But I am Italian. It is natural that I should lose my temper,” naïvely.
“We’re both of us a pair of fools, Barone. There was always some one else. A couple of fools.”
“Yes,” admitted the Barone eagerly.
“Considering,” whispered the colonel in Courtlandt’s ear; “considering that neither of them knew they were shooting nothing more dangerous than wads, they’re pretty good specimens. Eh, what?”