So I was to owe my life to Goguelat at every point.
“I had rather not discuss it,” said I.
“Well,” said he, “one word more and I’ll agree to bury the subject. What did you fight about?”
“O, what do men ever fight about?” I cried.
“A lady?” said he.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Deuce you did!” said he. “I should scarce have thought it of him.”
And at this my ill-humour broke fairly out in words. “He!” I cried. “He never dared to address her—only to look at her and vomit his vile insults! She may have given him sixpence: if she did, it may take him to heaven yet!”
At this I became aware of his eyes set upon me with a considering look, and brought up sharply.
“Well, well,” said he. “Good-night to you, Champdivers. Come to me at breakfast-time to-morrow, and we’ll talk of other subjects.”