“Ah! I didn’t observe that.” In his agitation he had not, the address being in small script at the corner. “Ormeston Hall? Yes, I remember, Sir George’s residence is so called. Of course it’s the son—must be.”
“But why do you think he means fight? Something happened between you, eh?”
“No; nothing between us, directly.”
“Ah! Indirectly, then? Of course the old trouble—a woman.”
“Well; if it be fighting the fellow’s after, I suppose it must be about that,” slowly rejoins Ryecroft, half in soliloquy and pondering over what took place on the night of the ball. Now vividly recalling that scene in the summer-house, with the angry words there spoken, he feels good as certain George Shenstone has come after him on the part of Miss Wynn.
The thought of such championship stirs his indignation, and he exclaims—
“By Heavens! he shall have what he wants. But I mustn’t keep him waiting. Give me that card, Major!”
The Major returns it to him, coolly observing—
“If it is to be a blue pill, instead of a whisky punch, I can accommodate you with a brace of barkers, good as can be got in Boulogne. You haven’t told me what your quarrel’s about; but from what I know of you, Ryecroft, I take it you’re in the right, and you can count on me as a second. Lucky it’s my left wing that’s clipped. With the right I can shoot straight as ever—should there be need for making it a four-cornered affair.”
“Thanks, Mahon! You’re just the man I’d have asked such a favour from.”