"You won't fight?" said the young man, getting paler and more breathless than ever.
"No, I will not fight—about nothing," Lionel said, with perfect good-humor. "I am not such an ass. If Miss Burgoyne is annoyed because I passed her on Friday without recognizing her, that was simply a mistake for which I have already apologized to her. As for any cock-and-bull story about my having persecuted her with odious attentions, that's all moonshine; she never put that into your head; that's your own imagination—"
"By heavens, you shall fight!" broke in this infuriate young fool, and the next moment he had snatched up the ink-bottle from the table before him and tossed it into his enemy's face. That is to say, it did not quite reach its aim; for Lionel had instinctively raised his hand, and the missile fell harmlessly on to the table again—not altogether harmlessly, either, for in falling the lid had opened and the ink was now flowing over Lady Rosamund's open album. At sight of this mishap, Lionel sprang to his feet, his eyes afire.
"I've a mind to take you and knock your idiotic brains against that wall," he said to the panting, white-faced youth. "But I won't. I will teach you a lesson instead. Yes, I will fight. Make what arrangements you please; I'll be there. Now get out."
He held the door open; the young man said, as he passed,
"You shall hear from me."
And then Lionel went back to Lady Rosamund's ill-fated album, and began to sponge it with blotting-paper, while with many a qualm he considered how he was to apologize to her and make some kind of plausible explanation. Fortunately the damage turned out to be less serious than at first sight appeared. The open page, which contained a very charming little sketch in water-color by Mr. Mellord, was of course hopelessly ruined; but elsewhere the ink had not penetrated very far; a number of new mounts would soon put that right. Then he thought he would go to Mr. Mellord and lay the whole affair before him, and humbly beg for another sketch (artists always being provided
with such things); so that, as regarded the album, no great harm had been done.
But as he was sitting in Mrs. Grey's little parlor, at tea, Nina fancied he looked a little preoccupied and was not talking as blithely as usual, and she made bold to ask him if anything were the matter.
"Yes," said he, "something is the matter. I'm afraid I've made a fool of myself." And then he added, with a smile, "Nina, I'm going to fight a duel."