Mr. Scrope was not in that condition which would enable him to articulate, but he seemed to gasp an assent, and Wogan put him down. He staggered backwards towards the house for a yard or two, leaned against one of the trees, and then, taking out his handkerchief, wiped his forehead; at the same time he walked towards the house, but with the manner of a man who is dizzy, and knows nothing of his direction. 'Stop!' cried Wogan. Scrope stooped, and turned back carelessly, as though he had not heard the command. Indeed, he seemed even to have forgotten why he was out of breath. 'Mr. Wogan,' he said, 'I do not quite understand. It seems you write love-poems to her ladyship, and yet encourage the Parson to court her.' Wogan was not to be drawn into any explanation. 'Let us leave her ladyship entirely out of the question. There's the value of my poetry to be argued out.' Mr. Scrope bowed, and they walked down the steps side by side, and through the opening in the hedge. A path led through the trees, and they followed it until they came to an open space of sward. Wogan measured it across with his stride. 'A very fitting place for the argument, I think,' he said, and took off his coat. 'What? In Smilinda's garden?' asked Scrope easily. 'Within view of Smilinda's windows? Surely the common road would be the more convenient place.' 'Why, and that's true,' answered Wogan. 'It would have been an outrage.' 'No,' said Scrope, 'merely a flaw in the argument. This is the nearest way. At least, I think so,' and he turned off at an angle, passed through a shrubbery, and came out opposite a little postern-gate in the garden-wall. 'You know the grounds well,' said Wogan. 'It is my first visit,' replied Scrope, with a trace of bitterness, 'but I have been told enough of them to know my way.' He stepped forward and opened the gate. Outside in the road stood a travelling chaise with a pair of horses harnessed to it. 'There is no one within view,' said Wogan. The road ran to right and left empty as far as the eye could reach; in front stretched the empty fields. 'No one,' said Mr. Scrope, and he looked up to the sky. 'Well, I would as lief take my last look at the sunlight as at anything else, and I doubt not it is the same with you.' Wogan, in spite of himself, began to entertain a certain liking for the man. He had accepted each stroke of ill-fortune--his discomfiture at Lady Oxford's hands, the grapple on the steps, and now this duel--without disputation. Moreover Wogan was wondering whether or no the man had some real grievance against her ladyship and what motive brought him, in what expectation, in his chaise to Brampton Bryan. He felt indeed a certain compunction for his behaviour, and he said doubtfully, 'Mr. Scrope, you and I might have been very good friends in other circumstances.'