“Ask him,” he said suddenly to Staretsky, “what he wants.” “What do you mean?” Soltyk answered irritably, “Why, what they want: what sort of a duel he wants and when.” “Duel” was said as though it were a common object. “Settle it quickly and let’s get all this nonsense over, since you have begun negotiations.” Stephen Staretsky stared at him. “You don’t mean—? I have not been negotiating. I simply⸺” The others once more clamoured, after a moment of astonishment. “You don’t mean to say, Louis, you’re going⸺?” “What nonsense, what utter nonsense! What can you be thinking of?” “If Bitzenko comes in again, pay no attention to him! What possesses you, Louis! Whatever possesses you, Louis!” Soltyk looked angrily at his friends without replying. “Staretsky, arrange that, do you mind?” he said when the exclamations stopped. “But for Heaven’s sake get it finished quickly. This is becoming boring.” Staretsky said, leaning on the back of Soltyk’s chair, with authority: “Don’t be absurd, Louis: don’t be absurd. You must refuse to listen to him. All that rot about libelling and the ‘beautiful girl’: my God, man, you’re not going to take that seriously?” “Of course not. But I shall fight the German clown. I want to. This is becoming ridiculous.” Soltyk had made up his mind. He would never have armed himself and shot Kreisler in the street. That would have been too ridiculous. It would have had the touch of passion and intimacy of a _crime passionel_. It would only have been dignified for an inhabitant of Nevada. He did not regard this as a duel, but a brawl, ordered by the rules of “affairs of honour.” If a drunken man or an _apache_ attacked you the best thing to do would be to fight. If he offered to “fight you fair”—putting it in that way—then _that_ would be the best thing, too, no doubt. But Bitzenko really had brought him to this. Kreisler alone could never have hoped to compass anything approaching a duel with him. Stephen Staretsky overwhelmed him with expostulation—even reproaches. His voice rose and fell in a microscopic stream of close-packed sound. His face became shiny and the veins appeared in it. He begged Soltyk to think of his friends! He gathered his arguments up in the tips of his fingers in little nervous bunches and held them under his friend’s nose, as though asking him to smell them. And then, with a spasm of the body, a vibrating twang on some deep chord in his throat, he dashed his gathered fingers towards the floor. In face of this attack it was impossible, even had he wished to do so, for Soltyk to reconsider his decision. The others, too, sat for the most part watching him. Bitzenko appeared again. Soltyk became pale at the sight of this sinister figure, so bourgeois, prepossessing, and bearded, with its legend of blindings and blood and uncanny tenacity as a second. He turned to a good-looking, sleek, sallow companion at his elbow. “Khudin, will you act for me, as Stephen won’t?”