“My lord, this trifling I can bear no longer; I must beg seriously that we may understand each other.”
“Trifling!—Never was more serious in my life. I’d turn Jew—I’d turn any thing, for a woman I loved.”
“Have you, or have you not, my lord, any intention of addressing Miss Montenero?”
“Since I have your permission—since you have put it in my head—since you have piqued me—frankly—yes.”
“I thank you for your frankness, my lord; I understand you. Now we understand each other,” said I.
“Why, yes—and ‘tis time we should,” said Mowbray, coolly, “knowing one another, as we have done, even from our boyish days. You may remember, I never could bear to be piqued, en honneur; especially by you, my dear Harrington. It was written above, that we were to be rivals. But still, if we could command our tempers—I was the hottest of the two, when we were boys; but seeing something of the world, abroad and at home, has done wonders for me. If you could coolly pursue this business as I wish, in the comic rather than the heroic style, we might still, though rivals, be friends—very good friends.”
“No, my lord, no: here all friendship between us ends.” “Be it so,” said Lord Mowbray: “then sworn foes instead of sworn friends—and open war is the word!”
“Open war!—yes—better than hollow peace.”
“Then a truce for to-day; to-morrow, with your good leave, I enter the lists.”
“When you please, my lord.”