“In that case, sir,” I said, “will you have the goodness to send a friend of yours to my friend Captain Fitzboodle? I must consider the matter as personal between ourselves. You insulted, and as I find now, for the second time—a lady whose relations to me you know. You have given neither to her, nor to me, the apology to which we are both entitled. You refuse even to promise to be silent regarding a painful scene which was occasioned by your own brutal and cowardly behaviour; and you must abide by the consequences, sir! you must abide by the consequences!” And I glared at him over my flat candlestick. “Curse me!—and hang me!—and,” &c. &c. &c. he says, “if I know what all this is about. What the dooce do you talk to _me_ about books, and about silence, and apologies, and sending Captain Fitzboodle to me? _I_ don’t want to see Captain Fitzboodle—great fat brute! _I_ know him perfectly well.” “Hush!” say I, “here’s Bedford.” In fact, Dick appeared at this juncture, to close the house and put the lamps out. But Captain Clarence only spoke or screamed louder. “What do I care about who hears me? That fellow insulted me already to-day, and I’d have pitched his life out of him, only I was down, and I’m so confounded weak and nervous, and just out of my fever—and—and hang it all! what are you driving at, Mr. What’s-your-name?” And the wretched little creature cries almost as he speaks. “Once for all, will you agree that the affair about which we spoke shall go no further?” I say, as stern as Draco. “I shan’t say anythin’ about it. I wish you’d leave me alone, you fellows, and not come botherin’. I wish I could get a glass of brandy-and-water up in my bed-room. I tell you I can’t sleep without it,” whimpers the wretch. “Sorry I laid hands on you, sir,” says Bedford sadly. “It wasn’t worth the while. Go to bed, and I’ll get you something warm.” “Will you, though? I couldn’t sleep without it. Do now—do now! and I won’t say anythin’—I won’t now—on the honour of a gentleman, I won’t. Good night, Mr. What-d’-ye-call—.” And Bedford leads the helot to his chamber. “I’ve got him in bed; and I’ve given him a dose; and I put some laudanum in it. He ain’t been out. He has not had much to-day,” says Bedford, coming back to my room, with his face ominously pale. “You have given him laudanum?” I ask. “_Sawbones_ gave him some yesterday,—told me to give him a little—forty drops,” growls Bedford. Then the gloomy major-domo puts a hand into each waistcoat pocket, and looks at me. “You want to fight for her, do you, sir? Calling out, and that sort of game? Phoo!”—and he laughs scornfully. “The little miscreant is too despicable, I own,” say I, “and it’s absurd for a peaceable fellow like me to talk about powder and shot at this time of day. But what could I do?” “I say it’s SHE ain’t worth it,” says Bedford, lifting up both clenched fists out of the waistcoat pockets. “What do you mean, Dick?” I ask.