“_Fi, donc_! _fi, donc_! _De Querchy_!” she would cry to it. (She had named the beast, it presently appeared, after an enemy of hers, M. le Comte of that title.) “_C’est ainsi que tu donnes une leçon de politesse à ces barbares, nos amis_?” My Lord Murk laughed at all her insolence--especially when her sallies were directed at his nephew. She spared the young man no more than she did her host’s wine, to which, Ned was confounded to observe, she resorted with a freedom that was entirely shameless. Indeed, she drank glass for glass with the elder of the gentlemen, and indulged herself with a corresponding licence of speech that quite confirmed the younger in his estimate of her character. But he was hardly prepared for the upshot of it all as directed against himself. “Monsieur Edouard,” she once said (it was after the servants had left the room), “have I not your language in perfection?” “Indeed, madame,” he answered stiffly, “even to a peculiar choice in words.” She laughed arrogantly. “I accept your insult!” she said--and flung the glass she was drinking from full at him. “_Là, là, là_!” she shrieked. “You threw up your arm: it is only the coward that has the instinct to throw up his arm to a woman!” My lord laughed like an old demon. Ned was on his feet, white and furious. “You are a woman!” he cried, “and the more shame to you!” She jumped from her chair. As she did so the monkey sprang to her left shoulder, on which it seated itself, gibbering and quarrelling. “I claim for the only privilege of my sex to despise the Joseph!” she cried. “For the rest, I can fight for my honour, monsieur, as you shall see!” She skipped, for accent to the paradox, in great apparent excitement; hurried to a window embrasure, stooped, and faced about with a naked rapier in her hand. “Draw!” she cried; and, running over to the door, turned the key in the lock and feinted at the amazed young man. All the while the monkey clung to her, adapting its position to her every movement. “Is this a snare?” said Ned coldly. He looked at his uncle, his hand clenched at his hip. But he wore no weapon but his recovered composure. The old villain drew his own blade and flung it across the table to his nephew. “Fight, you dog!” he sputtered and mumbled. He was deplorably drunk. “Fight!” he shrieked, “and take a lesson to your cursed self-importance!” He threw his glass in a frenzy into the fireplace, and screeched out, “Two to one in ponies on madame!” The lady cried “Ah-bah! He tink me of the ‘fancy.’” For all her assumed heat she was really self-possessed. Ned understood her to be playing a part; but he could not yet comprehend how he was concerned in it. He took up his uncle’s sword. “These,” he said coolly, “are dangerous toys. But, if madame will play with them, I must prevent her from doing harm to herself or me.”