“With all my heart,” answered Wharton. “It is growing late.” “Late! La, my dears!” clucked Mr. Falgate in horror. “Has your grace not been to bed yet?” “To save time,” said Gascoigne, “we have made an inspection of the ground, and we think that under the trees yonder is a spot not to be bettered.” Mainwaring flashed a critical and experienced eye over the place. “The sun is--So?” he said, looking up. “Yes; it should serve well enough, I--” “It will not serve at all,” cried Rotherby, who stood a pace or two apart. “A little to the right, there, the turf is better.” “But there is no protection,” put in the duke. “You will be under observation from that side of the square, including Stretton House.” “What odds?” quoth Rotherby. “Do I care who overlooks us?” And he laughed unpleasantly. “Or is your grace ashamed of being seen in your friend's company?” Wharton looked him steadily in the face a moment, then turned to his lordship's seconds. “If Mr. Caryll is of the same mind as his lordship, we had best get to work at once,” he said; and bowing to them, withdrew with Gascoigne. “See to the swords, Mainwaring,” said Rotherby shortly. “Here, Fanny!” This to Falgate, whose name was Francis, and who delighted in the feminine diminutive which his intimates used toward him. “Come help me with my clothes.” “I vow to Gad,” protested Mr. Falgate, advancing to the task. “I make but an indifferent valet, my dear.” Mr. Caryll stood thoughtful a moment when Rotherby's wishes had been made known to him. The odd irony of the situation--the key to which he was the only one to hold--was borne in upon him. He fetched a sigh of utter weariness. “I have,” said he, “the greatest repugnance to meeting his lordship.” “'Tis little wonder,” returned his grace contemptuously. “But since 'tis forced upon you, I hope you'll give him the lesson in manners that he needs.” “Is it--is it unavoidable?” quoth Mr. Caryll. “Unavoidable?” Wharton looked at him in stern wonder. Gascoigne, too, swung round to stare. “Unavoidable? What can you mean, Caryll?” “I mean is the matter not to be arranged in any way? Must the duel take place?” His Grace of Wharton stroked his chin contemplatively, his eye ironical, his lip curling never so slightly. “Why,” said he, at length, “you may beg my Lord Rotherby's pardon for having given him the lie. You may retract, and brand yourself a liar and your version of the Maidstone affair a silly invention which ye have not the courage to maintain. You may do that, Mr. Caryll. For my own sake, let me add, I hope you will not do it.”