“Not—not fight?” gasped his lordship, while Monsieur le Duc started and dropped his hat.
“No, my lord,” answered Sir John. “I am returning Viscount Templemore’s wig with my sincerest regrets so soon as ’tis combed and ironed——”
“D’ye mean, sir, that—that you actually refuse Viscount Templemore’s challenge?”
“Actually and positively, my lord!”
“But—but,” stammered Lord Cheevely. “Oh, demme, such action is impossible—was not—cannot be!”
“That is why I do it, my lord.”
“Oh, rat me!” murmured his lordship, goggling. “Oh, split me ... not fight! Dooce take and burn me—this from you, Sir John! You that ha’ never baulked ... had so many affairs ... gone out so frequently—oh, smite me dumb!”
“My lord,” sighed Sir John, “I have been out so very frequently that I am grown a little weary. You will therefore pray tell Viscount Templemore that I have given up duelling as a pastime for the present, and purpose rusticating awhile——”
“If—if you are serious, sir,” exclaimed Lord Cheevely, rolling his eyes, “demme, sir, if you are serious, permit me to tell ya’ ya’ conduct is dem’d strange, devilish queer and most dooced, dem’d irregular!”
“Parfaitement!” added Monsieur le Duc.