"I told one of 'em," said Anthony in my ear, "fellow in blue frock yonder, that you were the dooce an' all with a hair trigger—almost as dead a shot as your uncle Jervas or Gronow of the Guards, and begad, it's set 'em all by the ears, Perry, especially that scoundrel Danby."
At this I laughed, I think, wondering the while if Anthony would ever know how much I loved and admired him.
I remember a stretch of green turf screened by trees; a solemn pacing to and fro by various grave-faced persons; a careful measuring of distances and selection of ground.
I remember some objection that Anthony made as to the light, whereupon the solemn measuring and pacing was gravely done all over again. I also recall that Anthony, while discussing or overseeing these grave proceedings, would often lift his head and glance hastily round about with a swift, keen-eyed expectancy.
I remember the sun peeping forth at last to make the world glorious and warm the chill in my bones.
And then Anthony came towards me, carrying a pistol, and I noticed that his hand shook as he offered it to me.
"God love you, Perry," he said, a little huskily. "You look as unconcerned, as cool as—as a confounded cucumber! And now, Perry, remember to aim low, all pistols are apt to throw high—so, for heaven's sake aim low, old fellow."
"Do I stand here, Anthony?"
"Yes—damned fellow insists on twelve paces!" said he, his voice sounding hoarser than ever, and I saw his glance wandering again, here and there, to and fro, in almost desperate fashion.
"Mr. Vere-Manville," called Devereux's second, "may I trouble you a moment, pray?"