of waiting over, she found the tide of her courage
flowing fast. "This encounter must not take place, Mr. Wilding," she
informed him.

He raised his eyebrows--fine and level as her own--his thin lips smiled
never so faintly. "It is, I think," said he, "for Richard to prevent it
The chance was his last night. It shall be his again when we meet. If he
will express regret..." He left his sentence there. In truth he mocked
her, though she guessed it not.

"You mean," said she, "that if he makes apology...?"

"What else? What other way remains?"

She shook her head, and, if pale, her face was resolute, her glance
steady.

"That is impossible," she told him. "Last night--as I have the story--he
might have done it without shame. To-day it is too late. To tender his
apology on the ground would be to proclaim himself a coward."

Mr. Wilding pursed his lips and shifted his position. "It is difficult,
perhaps," said he, "but not impossible."

"It is impossible," she insisted firmly.

"I'll not quarrel with you for a word," he answered, mighty agreeable.
"Call it impossible, if you will. Admit, however, that it is all I
can suggest. You will do me the justice, I am sure, to see that in
expressing my willingness to accept your brother's expressions of regret
I am proving myself once more your very obedient servant. But that it is
you who ask it--and whose desires are my commands--I should let no man
go unpunished for an insult such as your brother put upon me."

She winced at his words, at the bow with which he had professed himself
once more her servant.

"It is no clemency that you offer him," she said. "You leave him a
choice between death and dishonour."

"He has," Wilding reminded her, "the chance of combat."

She flung back her head impatiently. "I think you mock me," said she.

He looked at her keenly. "Will you tell me plainly, madam," he begged,
"what you would have me do?"

She flushed under his gaze, and the flush told him what he sought to
learn. There was, of course, another way, and she had thought of it;
but she lacked--as well she might, all things considered--the courage
to propose it. She had come to Mr. Wilding in the vague hope that he
himself would choose the heroic part. And he, to punish for her scorn
of him this woman whom he loved to hating-point, was resolved that she
herself must beg it of him. Whether, having so far compelled her, he
would grant her prayer or not was something he could n