en wonder who invents the slang. Parrots pass it
along, of course, but it must take some cleverness to start it. And
isn't it curious," she went on, breathlessly, "how a new bit of slang
always fills a vacant place in the language? The minute you hear it you
know it's what you've always wanted. I suppose the reason we're obliged
to use the current phrase is because it expresses the current need. When
the hour passes, the need passes with it, and something new must be
coined to meet the new situation. I should think a most interesting book
might be written on the Psychology of Slang, and if I wasn't so busy
with other things--"

"Diane, I entreat you to answer me. Where is George?"

"Why, I must have forgotten to tell you that he went to the Jockey Club
with Monsieur de Melcourt--"

"You did tell me so; but that isn't all. Has he gone anywhere else?"

"How should I know, petite mere? Where should he go but come home?"

"Has he gone to fight a duel?"

The question surprised Diane into partially dropping her mask. For an
instant she was puzzled for an answer.

"Men who fight duels," she said, at last, "don't generally tell their
wives beforehand."

"But did George tell you?"

Again Diane hesitated before speaking.

"What a queer question!" was all she could find to say.

"It's a question I have a right to ask."

"But have I a right to answer?"

"If you don't answer, you leave me to infer that he has."

"Of course I can't keep you from inferring, but isn't that what they
call meeting trouble half-way?"

"I must meet trouble as it comes to me."

"But not before it comes. That's my point."

"It has come. It's here. I'm sure of it. He's gone to fight. You know
it. You've sent him. Oh, Diane, if he comes to harm his blood will be on
your head."

Diane shrugged her shoulders, and took another sandwich.

"I don't see that. In the first place, it's quite unlikely there'll be
any blood at all--or more than a very little. One of the things I admire
in men--our men, especially--is the maximum of courage with which they
avenge their honor, coupled with the minimum of damage they work in
doing it. It must require a great deal of skill. I know I should never
have the nerve for it. I should kill my man every time he didn't kill
me. But they hardly ever do."

"How can you say that? Wasn't Monsieur de Cretteville killed? And
Monsieur Lalanne?"

"That makes two cases. I implied that it happens sometimes--generally