ous, father."

"My son!" he cried in mock alarm. "You distress me! Never be serious.
Life has too many disappointments for that. Have you not read Marcus
Aurelius?"

"Have you reloaded your snuff box?" I asked him.

"Not that," he said, shaking his head, "but I know a hundred ways to
disarm a man, otherwise I should not be here witnessing this original
situation. My son, I could have killed you half a dozen times since you
have been holding that weapon."

"Admitted," I answered, "but I hardly think you will go to such lengths.
We all must pause somewhere, father."

"No," he agreed, "unfortunately I am of a mild disposition, and yet--"
he made a sudden move toward me--"Do you realize your weapon is
unprimed?"

"Shall I try it?" I asked.

"Excellent!" said my father. "You impress me. Yes, I have underrated your
possibilities, Henry. However, the play is over--"

He leaned towards the table abruptly and extinguished both the candles.
The glow of embers in the fireplace could not relieve the darkness of the
shuttered room.

"Now," he continued, "Mademoiselle is standing beside me, and Brutus is
between you and me and approaching you. I think it would be safer if you
put the pistol down. One's aim is uncertain in the dark, and, after all,
it is not Mademoiselle's quarrel. Tell him to put down the pistol,
Mademoiselle."

Her voice answered from the darkness in front of me.

"On the contrary," she said lightly, "pray continue. I have not the heart
to stop it--nor the courage to interfere in a family quarrel."

"Quite as one would expect from Mademoiselle," his voice replied, "but
fortunately my son also has not forgotten his manners. Henry, have you
set down the pistol?"

I tossed it on the floor.

"Unfortunately," I said, "I have no woman to hide behind."

I hoped the thrust went home, but my father's voice answered
without a tremor.

"You are right, my son. A woman is often useful, though generally when
you least expect it. The candles, Brutus."

VI

He rubbed his fingernails on his sleeve and glanced about him with a
pleasure he seemed quite unable to conceal. Mademoiselle's cold stare
seemed to react upon him like a smile of gratitude. The contempt on my
face he seemed to read in terms of adulation.

"Brutus, pick up the pistol. My son, you are more amusing than I had
hoped. Indeed, Mademoiselle, perhaps the old saying is right, that the
best is in our door-yard. I have had, perhaps, an ex