She shook her head, and, if pale, her face was resolute, her glance steady.
“That is impossible,” she told him. “Last night—as I have the story—he might have done it without shame. To-day it is too late. To tender his apology on the ground would be to proclaim himself a coward.”
Mr. Wilding pursed his lips and shifted his position. “It is difficult, perhaps,” said he, “but not impossible.”
“It is impossible,” she insisted firmly.
“I'll not quarrel with you for a word,” he answered, mighty agreeable. “Call it impossible, if you will. Admit, however, that it is all I can suggest. You will do me the justice, I am sure, to see that in expressing my willingness to accept your brother's expressions of regret I am proving myself once more your very obedient servant. But that it is you who ask it—and whose desires are my commands—I should let no man go unpunished for an insult such as your brother put upon me.”
She winced at his words, at the bow with which he had professed himself once more her servant.
“It is no clemency that you offer him,” she said. “You leave him a choice between death and dishonour.”
“He has,” Wilding reminded her, “the chance of combat.”
She flung back her head impatiently. “I think you mock me,” said she.
He looked at her keenly. “Will you tell me plainly, madam,” he begged, “what you would have me do?”