Mr. Lot took three strides to the left and three strides back again, as though setting to a partner in a dance. He turned and faced Jeffray again, his eyes glinting with anger, his clinched fists quivering with the inclination to dash itself in his kinsman’s face. “This is your answer, sir?” he said. “My answer, Lot.” “Then, sir, I call you just what you are, a most infernal scoundrel.” Jeffray, cooling in contrast to his cousin’s indignation, bowed to him, and condescended to smile. “Thanks for your bad opinion, cousin,” he said. “Cousin, damn you, don’t call me cousin! Tell me who the wench is who is making play for you over here.” Jeffray drew himself instantly. “Let me advise you, sir,” he said, “to refrain from repeating an insult to a woman’s honor.” Mr. Lot gave a deep, ventral laugh, flashed a contemptuous look at his cousin, and cocked his thumb towards Bess. “You needn’t talk so fine about such baggage,” he said. “Lot Hardacre!” “You can see the color of her stockings, eh? I tell you, Richard Jeffray, you have insulted my sister’s affections, jilted her, sir, for a mere drab. Take it straight in the face.” Mr. Lot’s fist lunged out suddenly, but Jeffray, who had been watching for the blow, sprang back out of the reach of his cousin’s arm. “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. Jeffray, after introducing Wilson to Mr. Robert Beaty, withdrew with a slight bow and passed on to speak with Bess. Knowing that Lot Hardacre was watching him narrowly, he bore himself with all the courtliness he could command towards the girl, and pointed her back to the seat that she had just abandoned. “I have a debt of honor to pay,” he said, with a smile. “You are going to fight that man?” “Yes.” “Who is he? I hate him.” “I will tell you everything afterwards. Will you go into the house or stay here on the terrace?”