Reckavile was waiting for him in the Club. He had occupied his time in tossing a friend for sovereigns, and had liberally attended to his needs for liquid refreshment.
He listened in scornful silence to Wynter’s recital.
“And so the merchant won’t fight,” he said.
“Not likely,” said Wynter with a loud laugh “and the best of the joke is he wants you to marry the woman.”
Reckavile sat up straight and Wynter eyed him narrowly.
“Of course, that’s your affair, old man, but it certainly looks as though you are caught at last,” and he slapped the other on the back. “We all know about the Reckavile honour. You are all blackguards of the worst type, but men of honour of a sort—a curious sort.”
There were several in the group, and they laughed boisterously.
“Damn you, you need not remind me of that,” said Reckavile, his thoughts were with a little lady with great eyes in Italy, watching for his coming with a lovelit face, whom this same sense of honour has compelled him to marry. He shook himself.
“You’ll all dine with me,” he said “and we’ll have a flutter afterwards, but I’m sorry the merchant would not fight.”