“He isn’t drunk, is he?” Rue asked, shrinking back. “We couldn’t have a drunken man shown up into the box here.” “Not more drunk than a gentleman should be,” Florian answered, airily. “He can walk and talk, and I think he can behave himself. But he’s a good deal flushed, and somewhat flustered, and he expresses a burning desire for Herr Hausberger’s heart-blood, in a guttural bass, with quite unbecoming ferocity.” Rue shrank away with a frightened face. “Oh, don’t bring him up here!” she cried. “Please, Florian, don’t bring him up here. I’m so afraid of tipsy men; and you don’t really think he wants to murder Herr Hausberger?” “Well, not exactly to _murder_ him, perhaps,” Florian replied, with a tolerant and expansive smile; “that would be positively vulgar; but to fight him, no doubt; and, if possible, to put an end to him. The duel in one form or another, you see, is a most polite institution. We don’t call it murder in good Society. Lindner feels himself aggrieved—there’s a lady in the case—” and he gave an expressive side-glance over his shoulder towards Linnet, “so he desires to bury his knife to the hilt in the gentleman’s body whom, rightly or wrongly, he conceives to have acted ill towards him. Nothing vulgar in _that_ you’ll allow: a most natural sentiment. Only, as Herr Hausberger’s friends in this little affair, we must strive our best to see that all things are done, as the apostle advises, decently and in order.” Linnet drew back with a convulsive gasp. Was this bloodshed they contemplated, and were talking of so calmly? Will laid his hand on Rue’s arm. Even in the heat of the moment, Linnet noticed that simple action, and, she knew not why, her heart sank within her. “If I were you, Rue,” Will put in very hurriedly, “I’d let this man come in; drunk or sober, I’d see him. It’s better he should speak with Herr Hausberger here than anywhere else. Try to sink your own feelings and put up with him for a minute or two. If you don’t, I’m afraid I can’t answer for the consequences.” He spoke very seriously. Rue drew back, still shrinking. Her face was pale but her voice was firm. “Very well, Will,” she answered, without another word of demur. “I hate a tipsy man; but if _you_ wish it, I’ll see him here.” Linnet noticed the lingering stress of her voice on the _you_, and the obvious familiarity that subsisted between them; and she thought to herself once more, what did it matter to her?—she was Andreas Hausberger’s wife now. Blessed Madonna, protect her!