'I doubt it very much, Mr. Wogan.' Scrope shook his head and smiled. 'Your poetry would always have come between us. I would really sooner die than praise it.' He looked up and down the road as he spoke, and then made an almost imperceptible nod at his coachman. 'That field opposite will do, I think,' Scrope said, and advanced from the doorway to the side of his chaise as though he was looking for something. It was certainly not his sword; Wogan now thinks it was his pistols. Wogan felt his liking increase and was inclined to put the encounter off for a little. It was for this reason that he stepped forward and passed an arm through Scrope's just as the latter had set a foot on the step of the chaise, no doubt to search the better for what he needed. 'Now what's amiss with the poem?' asked Wogan in a friendly way. 'It is altogether too inconsequent,' replied Scrope with a sudden irritation for which Wogan was at a loss to account. 'But my dear man,' said he, 'it was not intended for a syllogism.' Scrope took his foot off the step and turned to Wogan as though a new thought had sprung into his brain. 'Mr. Wogan,' he said, 'I shall have all the pleasure imaginable in pointing out the faults to you if you care to listen and have the leisure. Then if you kill me afterwards, why I shall have done you some slight service and perhaps the world a greater. If I kill you, on the other hand, why there's so much time wasted, it is true, but I am in no hurry.' There was no escape from the duel; that Wogan knew. Mr. Scrope had insulted the Parson, Lady Oxford, and himself; he was aware besides that the Parson and Wogan, both of them at the best suspected characters, were visiting the Earl of Oxford; and he had, whether it was justified or no, a hot resentment against the Parson. He might, since he knew so much, know also more, as, for instance, the names under which the Parson and Wogan were hiding themselves. It would not in any case need a very shrewd guess to hit upon their business, and if Mr. Scrope got back safe to London, why he might make himself confoundedly unpleasant. Wogan ran through these arguments in his mind, and was brought to the conclusion that he must most infallibly kill Mr. Scrope; but at the same time a little of his company meanwhile could do no harm. 'Nor I,' replied Wogan accordingly. 'I shall be delighted to confute your opinions.' Mr. Scrope bowed; it seemed as though his face lighted up for a moment. 'There is no reason why we should stand in the road,' he said, 'when we can sit in the chaise.' 'Very true,' answered Wogan. Scrope mounted into the chaise. Wogan followed upon his heels. They sat down side by side, and Scrope pulled out the verses from his pocket. He read the dedication once more: 'Strephon to Smilinda running barefoot over the grass in a gale of wind.'