Ahlberg grew perfectly rigid. This blunt, Anglo-Saxon way of picking a quarrel amazed him. He brought his heels together, and stood up very erect, in the first position of dancing, and said: “This is most extraordinary. Does Monsieur know that but one result can follow this?” “Anything you please,” answered Pembroke, carelessly, “but if you force me to fight I will certainly kill you. You know something of my pistol practice.” Ahlberg hesitated a moment, and then drawing up his sleeve, exposed a great red knot on his right arm. “If I desired to take advantage of you I might say that you knew my pistol arm was disabled. I got this six months ago--and it will be six months more before it is well. The paralysis is still partial. But as soon as I can trust it, you will hear from me.” “By all means,” answered Pembroke. Then they touched their hats ceremoniously, and went their way, Pembroke plunging through the brushwood on the side of the road with his dog at his heels. Pembroke never despised himself more than at that moment. Here was he involved in a quarrel with a man for whom he felt a thorough contempt in every respect, and against which he had particularly warned himself. As to the method of settling the trouble proposed, that his own good sense condemned, albeit it was still in vogue in Virginia. In the heat of anger he had promised Ahlberg to kill him--while he, Pembroke, knew in his heart, that certainly nothing Ahlberg could say or do, would make him deliberately carry out any such intention. But the folly, wickedness, petulance, want of self-command that brought the quarrel about, enraged him more with himself than with Ahlberg. He could imagine Cave’s cool and cutting disapproval--Colonel Berkeley’s uproarious and vociferous protest. He knew his own folly in the case so well, that he fancied everybody else must know it too. At all events, the trouble was postponed, and he felt prepared to do a great deal, even to the extent of apologizing to Ahlberg, rather than fight him. And then Elise. What a creature she was to be sure--singing to him to charm him, and declaiming poetry like the tragic muse--and then that scene with Cole, at which the recollection even made him shudder and laugh too. Why couldn’t he fall thoroughly in love with Olivia Berkeley? Probably she would refuse him tartly, but at least it would rid him of Madame Koller, and it would be a bracing, healthy experience. He had half a mind to go back and suggest to Ahlberg that they observe their usual terms toward each other until the time came that Ahlberg might demand satisfaction. A strained demeanor would be peculiarly unpleasant, considering the way the people at The Beeches and the Berkeleys and Miles and himself were associated. But he reflected that Ahlberg was a man of the world, and would probably let things go on smoothly, anyhow. It turned out he was correct, as the next time they met, Ahlberg’s manner was imperturbable, and the cold