Lord Selby and his friend freely accepted the polite invitation of the Prince to breakfast, and they all adjourned to a small but splendidly decorated room, where everything was already awaiting them. There are few incidents in life which so much predispose to rapid intimacy as the case of an averted duel. The revulsion from animosity is almost certain to lead to, if not actual friendship, what may easily become so. In the present instance, the very diversities of national character gave a zest and enjoyment to the meeting; and while the Englishmen were charmed by the fascination of manners and conversational readiness of their hosts, the Russians were equally struck with a cool imperturbability and impassiveness, of which they had never seen the equal. By degrees the Russian led the conversation to the question by which their misunderstanding originated. “You know my Lord Glencore, perhaps?” said he. “Never saw, scarcely ever heard of him,” said Selby, in his dry, laconic tone. “Is he mad, or a fool?” asked the Prince, half angrily. “I served in a regiment once where he commanded a troop,” said Baynton; “and they always said he was a good sort of fellow.” “You read that paragraph this morning, I conclude?” said the Russian. “You saw how he dares to stigmatize the honor of his wife,--to degrade her to the rank of a mistress,--and, at the same time, to bastardize the son who ought to inherit his rank and title?” “I read it,” said Selby, dryly; “and I had a letter from my lawyer about it this morning.” “Indeed!” exclaimed he, anxious to hear more, and yet too delicate to venture on a question. “Yes; he writes to me for some title-deeds or other. I did n't pay much attention, exactly, to what he says. Glen-core's man of business had addressed a letter to him.” The Russian bowed, and waited for him to resume; but, apparently, he had rather fatigued himself by such unusual loquacity, and so he lay back in his chair, and puffed his cigar in indolent enjoyment. “A goodish sort of thing for _you_ it ought to be,” said Baynton, between the puffs of his tobacco smoke, and with a look towards Selby. “I suspect it may,” said the other, without the slightest change of tone or demeanor. “Where is it,--somewhere in the south?” “Mostly, Devon. There's something in Wales too, if I remember aright.” “Nothing Irish?” “No, thank Heaven,--nothing Irish;” and his grim Lordship made the nearest advance to a smile of which his unplastic features seemed capable. “Do I understand you aright, my Lord,” said the Prince, “that you receive an accession of fortune by this event?” “I shall, if I survive Glencore,” was the brief reply. “You are related, then?” “Some cousinship,--I forget how it is. Do you remember, Baynton?” “I'm not quite certain. I think it was a Coventry married one of Jack Conway's sisters, and she afterwards became the wife of Sir something Massy. Isn't that it?”