"I am, then," quoth Tom, his suspicion increasing in turn. "Do you wish, sir, to have a scene before this waiter and the whole house, or will you be so kind as to walk outside with me?" "I must decline, sir; not being in the habit of holding intercourse with an actress's bully." Tom did not knock him down: but replied smilingly enough-- "I am far too much in earnest in this matter, sir, to be stopped by any coarse expressions. Waiter, you may go. Now, will you fight me to-morrow morning, or will you not?" "I may fight a gentleman: but not you." "Well, I shall not call you a coward, because I know that you are none; and I shall not make a row here, for a gentleman's reasons, which you, calling yourself a gentleman, seem to have forgotten. But this I will do; I will follow you till you do fight me, if I have to throw up my own prospects in life for it. I will proclaim you, wherever we meet, for what you are--a mean and base intriguer; I will insult you in Kursaals, and cane you on public places; I will be Frankenstein's man to you day and night, till I have avenged the wrongs of this poor girl, the dust of whose feet you are not worthy to kiss off." Stangrave was surprised at his tone. It was certainly not that of a conscious villain: but he only replied sneeringly,-- "And pray what may give Mr. Thurnall the right to consider himself the destined avenger of this frail beauty's wrongs?" "I will tell you that after we have fought; and somewhat more. Meanwhile, that expression, 'frail beauty,' is a fresh offence, for which I should certainly cane you, if she were not in the house." "Well," drawled Stangrave, feigning an ostentatious yawn, "I believe the wise method of ridding oneself of impertinents is to grant their requests. Have you pistols? I have none." "I have both duellers and revolvers at your service." "Ah? I think we'll try the revolvers then," said Stangrave, savage from despair, and disbelief in all human goodness. "After what has passed, five or six shots apiece will be hardly _outré_." "Hardly, I think," said Tom. "Will you name your second'?" "I know no one. I have not been here two hours; but I suppose they do not matter much." "Humph! it is as well to have witnesses in case of accident. There are a couple of roystering Burschen in the public room, who, I think, would enjoy the office. Both have scars on their faces, so they will be _au fait_ at the thing. Shall I have the honour of sending one of them to you?" "As you will, sir; my number is 34." And the two fools turned on their respective heels, and walked off. At sunrise next morning Tom and his second are standing on the Falkenhohe, at the edge of the vast circular pit, blasted out by some explosion which has torn the slate into mere dust and shivers, now covered with a thin coat of turf. "Schöne aussicht!" says the Bursch, waving his hand round, in a tone which is benevolently meant to withdraw Tom's mind from painful considerations.