“I’ve a mind to take you and knock your idiotic brains against that wall,” he said to the panting, white-faced youth.  “But I won’t.  I will teach you a lesson instead.  Yes, I will fight.  Make what arrangements you please; I’ll be there.  Now get out.”

He held the door open; the young man said, as he passed,

“You shall hear from me.”

And then Lionel went back to Lady Rosamund’s ill-fated album, and began to sponge it with blotting-paper, while with many a qualm he considered how he was to apologize to her and make some kind of plausible explanation.  Fortunately the damage turned out to be less serious than at first sight appeared.  The open page, which contained a very charming little sketch in water-color by Mr. Mellord, was of course hopelessly ruined; but elsewhere the ink had not penetrated very far; a number of new mounts would soon put that right.  Then he thought he would go to Mr. Mellord and lay the whole affair before him, and humbly beg for another sketch (artists always being provided with such things); so that, as regarded the album, no great harm had been done.

But as he was sitting in Mrs. Grey’s little parlor, at tea, Nina fancied he looked a little preoccupied and was not talking as blithely as usual, and she made bold to ask him if anything were the matter.

“Yes,” said he, “something is the matter.  I’m afraid I’ve made a fool of myself.”  And then he added, with a smile, “Nina, I’m going to fight a duel.”

“A duel, Leo?” she said, faintly.

“Yes; and what I fear about it is the ridicule that may follow.  But don’t be alarmed, Nina,” he said, cheerfully, “I don’t think I’m going to fall on the deadly field of battle; I can take care of myself.  The trouble is that the whole thing is so preposterous—­so absolutely ridiculous!  The fact is, what the young gentleman really wants is a thorough good caning, and there’s nobody to give it him.  Very well, he must have something else; and I propose to teach him a wholesome lesson.  I’m not going to take the trouble of crossing over to France or Belgium—­I dare say that will be the programme—­for nothing.  Then there’s another thing, Nina:  I am the challenged party; I ought to have the choice of weapons.  Well, now, I am not a very good shot; but I’m considered a very fair fencer; and I suppose you would say that I should be magnanimous and choose pistols?  Oh, no; I’m not going to do anything of the kind.  There might be a very awkward accident with pistols—­that is to say, if our bloodthirsty seconds put in more than half a charge of powder.  But with swords I fancy I shall be rather master of the situation; and perhaps a little prod or a scratch, just to show him the color of his own blood, will do him a world of good.  It may turn out the other way, no doubt; I’ve heard of bad fencers breaking through one’s guard just by pure ignorance and accident; but the betting is against that kind of thing.”