“But where is Grace?” said a voice out there in the wide ball-room; and as this was Miss Burgoyne’s cue, she tripped lightly on to the stage with her smiling answer:  “One kiss, papa, before the guests arrive.” And, as it turned out, there was no further opportunity of talk that night between Miss Burgoyne and Mr. Lionel Moore.

But two days thereafter, and just as Lionel was about to go out for his morning ride, the house-porter brought him a card.  It was Mr. Percival Miles who was below.

“Ask the gentleman to come up.”

Here were the preliminaries of battle, then.  Lionel had a vague kind of notion that the fire-eating youth ought not to have appeared in person—­that he ought to have been represented by a friend; however, it was not of much consequence.  He only hoped that there would be no further altercation or throwing of ink-bottles; otherwise he considered it probable that this interview would terminate in a more English manner than the last.

The young gentleman came in, hat in hand.  He was apparently very calm and dignified.

“Mr. Moore,” said he, slowly, as if he were repeating words already carefully chosen, “I am about to take an unusual course.  I have been asked to do so—­I have been constrained to do so—­by the one person whose wish in such a matter must be respected.  I have come to apologize to you for my conduct of the other day.”

“Oh, very well,” said Lionel, but somewhat coldly; he did not seem well satisfied that this young man should get off so easily, after his unheard-of insolence.  Indeed, Lionel was very much in the position of the irate old Scotchwoman whose toes were trodden upon by a man in a crowd.  “I beg your pardon,” said the culprit.  “Begging my paurdon ’ll no dae,” was the retort, “I’m gaun to gie ye a skelp o’ the lug!”

“I hope you will accept my apology,” the pale-faced young gentleman continued in the same stiff and embarrassed manner.  “I don’t know whether it is worth while my offering any excuse for what I did—­except that it was done under a misapprehension.  The—­the lady in question seemed annoyed—­perhaps I mistook the meaning of certain phrases she used—­and certainly I must have been entirely in error in guessing as to what she wished me to do.  I take the whole blame on myself.  I acted hastily—­on the spur of the moment; and now I am exceedingly sorry; and I ask your pardon.”

“Oh, very well,” Lionel said, though somewhat ungraciously.  “But you see you are getting rather the best of this performance.  You come here with a ridiculous cock-and-bull story, you threaten and vapor and kick up mock-heroics, you throw a bottle of ink over a book belonging to a friend of mine—­and then you are to get off by saying two or three words of apology!”

“What can I do more?” said the humble penitent.  “I have tried to explain.  I—­I was as ready to fight as you could be; but—­but now I obey the person who has the best right to say what shall be done in such an affair.  I have made every apology and explanation I could; and I ask your pardon.”