Mr. Loftus sat in his bedroom at Pond Place, fingering his cherished pistols. It was the day subsequent to his encounter with Gall, and he was spending it at Sir Simon's. Loftus had not been himself since the mishap; he was not one to cherish revenge in a general way, but he did in this instance firmly resolve that Gall should suffer. On all occasions of his visits to his uncle's these pistols were got out, their state ascertained, their shape and points admired. It was Sunday afternoon, but Loftus was rubbing them with wash-leather; he and Leek, who stood by, talking in a desultory manner. "Loftus, I would not care to possess pistols if I had to keep them locked up out of sight," cried Leek rather inopportunely. "Ah," said Loftus, "wait until I am my own master. I wish I _might_ use them," he added, significantly. "I could put a little bullet into somebody with all the pleasure in life—that is, if he were not too great a coward to meet me; but snobs are always cowards. Give me that oil, Onions." "You mean Gall," said Onions, handing the phial, and taking out the cork by way of facilitating operations; upon which a strong smell of bergamotte was diffused through the room. Onions gave a sniff. "I say, Loftus, this is hair oil!" "It will do; I've got no other. Yes, snobs are safe to be cowards; it's in their blood, and they can't help it," observed he, dropping a modicum of oil on the bright steel and delicately rubbing it. "I'd lay you all I'm worth; I'd lay you these pistols, Onions, that if I called out Gall, he'd laugh in my face." "Bosh, Loftus! Folks don't fight duels now," was the slighting remark of Onions. "Not on this side the Channel. No; and that's what the fellow would shelter himself under—a custom obsolete. Gall has insulted me, and if I live I'll make him suffer for it. I _should_ like to put a bullet into him," continued Bertie, grandly. "It was too bad," said sympathising Onions. "I should pitch into him, Loftus." Mr. Loftus threw up his head. "Pitching in" was not in his line, or anything so vulgar. "It was a great mistake to allow duelling to go out," he observed, in his lordly manner. "There's no way left now for gentlemen to resent an insult. You can't fight a fellow with your fists, as if you were a prize-fighter; you can't bring an action against him, and let things be blabbed out to the world." "You can kick him down stairs," said Onions. Mr. Loftus scorned a refutation. "Just lay hold of this end, will you, while I rub. Mark my words, Onions, before fifty years have gone over our heads, duelling will be in again." "I say! is this Sir Simon coming up?" cried Leek, hurriedly. Loftus listened for a moment, and then bundled pistols and leather and oil into the drawer. Sir Simon was passing to his own room, and there was no certainty that he would not look into this. So, for the time being, the polishing and the discussion were alike cut short.