“Be careful,” he said, whipping out his sword and presenting the point towards Mr. Lot, “I will run you through if you try any of your drayman’s methods.”
Lot glared at him and felt for his sword-hilt.
“Will you fight?” he roared.
“Readily.”
“I’ll give you a mark to remember, sir—by gad, I will!”
Jeffray bowed to him very quietly.
“Permit me to call my second,” he said, “Mr. Richard Wilson is in the library.”
“Fetch him out,” growled the hero of the moment.
“The lawn below the terrace will serve us.”
Jeffray turned, sword in hand, and entered the house. He crossed the hall, found Wilson reading in the library, and explained the affair to him in a few words. The painter appeared distressed and by no means eager to further the quarrel. Jeffray smothered his objections, appealed to him as a friend, and soon had Wilson out upon the terrace. Mr. Beaty and Lot Hardacre were conferring together in undertones. On the seat at the end of the terrace sat Bess, looking restless and alert about the eyes. She started up when Jeffray reappeared with Wilson upon the terrace, and moved some paces towards him.