"I have not seen my uncle in fifteen years," said Anthony, coldly; "and his opinions in the matter can have no weight with me." Then he leaned across the table, seeing the grave look in the face of Whitaker, and said kindly: "I think my attitude troubles you. Please do not allow any duty which you think due me as a chance acquaintance to entangle you in a disagreeable situation."
Whitaker swallowed hard, but he was firm.
"You see," said he, and his voice was so pitched as to be unheard by the curious ones about him, "my group is the gayer one,—Tarrant and his kind,—and it holds to certain things as necessary in a position of honor! But, damn it all, Stevens! I'll overboard with the whole lot of it; for, after all, what you say is nearer the truth; only most of us have never had the courage to admit it."
A door was heard to close sharply. Tarrant was in the public room, his eyes going about, his face flushed with passion. At sight of him a murmur arose; then it grew until it was a sort of subdued roar, shot through with startled cries; for the duelist had sighted his man and was advancing swiftly toward him between the rows of tables. Whitaker said to Anthony:
"You had better get up. He means to strike you!"
Anthony made no reply; he sat still and glowered at his plate. A close observer would have noted, though, that his swift, powerful body was adjusted for a sudden leap and a tigerish lashing out. Tarrant reached his side.
"Mr. Stevens," said the man, fury shaking his voice, "I have received your message."
Anthony turned his head and waited.
"Let me say to you," proceeded Tarrant, "that while your attitude may serve in a mongrel community like New Orleans, it will not be tolerated here." Anthony was silent, but Whitaker saw his rigid jaw, and noted his back hunch as the great muscles grew tight. "For the last time," said Tarrant, "will you—"
"One moment, please," said a hard, quiet voice.