This, in a period of ten minutes, was the first remark that she had addressed to Sally.  Coming, as it did, after that space of time, pitched on the casual note, the eyebrows gently lifted, there was a whip in it that stung across Sally’s sensitive cheeks.  The words in themselves, of course, were nothing.  Traill, in fact, thought that this icicle of a sister of his was beginning to thaw, and looked towards Sally for her answer in encouraging expectancy.

Sally rose to her feet and crossed to the mantelpiece.  The spirit in her prompted her to considered lethargy, as though the remark were as inconsequent to her as it had been to the maker; but the gentleness of her nature made it impossible for her to give insult for insult.  Her steps were not slow—­they were almost eager—­and her lips smiled.  She gave the very impression that she would have died rather than create—­the apparent sense of pleasure in which she felt in being addressed at all.

For a moment she stood looking into the impassive, brutal face of James Brownrigg.  Her expression was one of studiousness and consideration; yet the face of James Brownrigg was completely blurred in her vision.  She had to force her eyes to see, and spur her mind to think.  Then she turned, facing Mrs. Durlacher.

“I think if you’re going to judge everybody by their outward appearance,” she said, “you certainly might feel inclined to say that he wasn’t a gentleman.  But outward appearances always seem to me so terribly deceptive.  I should never let myself be led away by them.”

This was a declaration!  Even Sally, in her own gentle way, could declare war.  The perfect curve of her upper lip grew thin as she said it, like a bow that straightens itself after the arrow has sped.  Traill cast a swift glance at her, comprehending that there lay some meaning behind her words, yet knowing nothing of the duel that was being fought under his very eyes.

Mrs. Durlacher smiled.  She took the thrust as gracefully as she had given her own.

To the trained hand and to the practised eyes, these things can not only be done with dexterity, they can be done with ease and with style.  There are many who imagine that the days of romance are over because gentlemen do no longer saunter through the salons of the rich with pointed rapiers tapping at their heels.  But romance did not go out with the duel.  The duel itself has never gone out.  Words, looks—­these are the weapons of romance now.  They are sheathed in their scabbards of velvet politesse, but just as easy of drawing, just as light to flash out and tingle in the air as ever were the dainty little Toledo blades of some odd two hundred years ago.

“Jack,” said Mrs. Durlacher, “you’ve introduced me to a diplomatist.  She says what she means without telling you what she says.”

Traill thought that it all alluded to the portrait of James Brownrigg—­imagined that Sally agreed with him, yet did not like to contradict his sister, and he laughed with amusement at the smartness of her retort.  But Sally returned to her seat, conscious that she had made an enemy.  She could think of no reply that had not a lash of bitterness in it and, clinging to the dignity of silence, rather than the vigour of attack, she said nothing.