of his small moustache. "I
think not," he said, faint regret in his voice.

Chris thought not too, judging by the clamour of invective which the
injured man had managed to pour forth. But for some reason she pressed
the point.

"But--just imagine--if you had!"

He shrugged his shoulders with extreme deliberation.

"_Alors_, Mademoiselle Christine, there would have been one _canaille_
the less in the world."

She was a little shocked at the cool rejoinder, yet could not somehow
feel that her _preux chevalier_ could be in the wrong.

"He might have killed you," she remarked after a moment, determined to
survey the matter from every standpoint. "I am sure he meant to."

He shrugged his shoulders again and laughed. "That is quite possible. And
you would have been sorry--a little--no?"

She raised her clear eyes to his. "You know I should have been
heart-broken," she said, with the utmost simplicity.

"But really?" he said.

"But really," she repeated, breaking into a smile. "Now do promise me
that you will never fight that horrid man again."

He spread out his hands. "How can I promise you such a thing! It is not
the fashion in France to suffer insults in silence."

"Did he insult you, then?"

Again he stiffened. "He insulted me--yes. And I, I struck him. _Apres
cela_--" again the expressive shrug, and no more.

"But how did he insult you?" persisted Chris. "Couldn't you have just
turned your back, as one would in England?"

"No" Sternly he made reply. "I could not--turn my back."

"It's ever so much more dignified," she maintained.

The dark eyes flashed. "Pardon!" he said. "There are some insults upon
which no man, English or French, can with honour turn the back."

That fired her curiosity. "It was something pretty bad, then? What was
it, Bertie? Tell me!"

"I cannot tell you," he returned, quite courteously but with the utmost
firmness.

She glanced at him again speculatively, then, with shrewdness: "When men
fight duels," she said, "it's generally over either politics or--a woman.
Was it--politics, Bertie?"

He stopped. "It was not politics, Christine," he said.

"Then--" She paused, expectant.

His face contracted slightly. "Yes, it was--a woman. But I say nothing
more than that. We will speak of it--never again."

But this was very far from satisfying Chris. "Tell me at least about the
woman," she urged. "Is it--is it the girl you are going to marry?"

But he stood silent, looking at h