“Why;—­what hope have you?”

“That is another thing.  I shall not speak of that;—­at any rate not to you.”

“Then, sir,—­” and now Lord Chiltern advanced another step and raised his hand as though he were about to put it with some form of violence on the person of his rival.

“Stop, Chiltern,” said Phineas, stepping back, so that there was some article of furniture between him and his adversary.  “I do not choose that there should be a riot here.”

“What do you call a riot, sir?  I believe that after all you are a poltroon.  What I require of you is that you shall meet me.  Will you do that?”

“You mean,—­to fight?”

“Yes,—­to fight; to fight; to fight.  For what other purpose do you suppose that I can wish to meet you?” Phineas felt at the moment that the fighting of a duel would be destructive to all his political hopes.  Few Englishmen fight duels in these days.  They who do so are always reckoned to be fools.  And a duel between him and Lord Brentford’s son must, as he thought, separate him from Violet, from Lady Laura, from Lord Brentford, and from his borough.  But yet how could he refuse?  “What have you to think of, sir, when such an offer as that is made to you?” said the fiery-red lord.

“I have to think whether I have courage enough to refuse to make myself an ass.”

“You say that you do not wish to have a riot.  That is your way to escape what you call—­a riot.”

“You want to bully me, Chiltern.”

“No, sir;—­I simply want this, that you should leave me where you found me, and not interfere with that which you have long known I claim as my own.”

“But it is not your own.”

“Then you can only fight me.”

“You had better send some friend to me, and I will name some one, whom he shall meet.”

“Of course I will do that if I have your promise to meet me.  We can be in Belgium in an hour or two, and back again in a few more hours;—­that is, any one of us who may chance to be alive.

“I will select a friend, and will tell him everything, and will then do as he bids me.”

“Yes;—­some old steady-going buffer.  Mr. Kennedy, perhaps.”

“It will certainly not be Mr. Kennedy.  I shall probably ask Laurence Fitzgibbon to manage for me in such an affair.”

“Perhaps you will see him at once, then, so that Colepepper may arrange with him this afternoon.  And let me assure you, Mr. Finn, that there will be a meeting between us after some fashion, let the ideas of your friend Mr. Fitzgibbon be what they may.”  Then Lord Chiltern purposed to go, but turned again as he was going.  “And remember this,” he said, “my complaint is that you have been false to me,—­damnably false; not that you have fallen in love with this young lady or with that.”  Then the fiery-red lord opened the door for himself and took his departure.