be always trying to swallow something--perhaps his wrath. "The lady has
placed her interests in my hands; I demand the only reparation that is
possible between gentlemen."

"Look here, my young friend," Lionel said, in a very cool sort of
fashion, "do you want to go on the stage? Is that a specimen of what you
can do? For it isn't bad, you know--for burlesque."

"You won't fight?" said the young man, getting paler and more breathless
than ever.

"No, I will not fight--about nothing," Lionel said, with perfect
good-humor. "I am not such an ass. If Miss Burgoyne is annoyed because I
passed her on Friday without recognizing her, that was simply a mistake
for which I have already apologized to her. As for any cock-and-bull
story about my having persecuted her with odious attentions, that's all
moonshine; she never put that into your head; that's your own
imagination--"

"By heavens, you shall fight!" broke in this infuriate young fool, and
the next moment he had snatched up the ink-bottle from the table before
him and tossed it into his enemy's face. That is to say, it did not
quite reach its aim; for Lionel had instinctively raised his hand, and
the missile fell harmlessly on to the table again--not altogether
harmlessly, either, for in falling the lid had opened and the ink was
now flowing over Lady Rosamund's open album. At sight of this mishap,
Lionel sprang to his feet, his eyes afire.

"I've a mind to take you and knock your idiotic brains against that
wall," he said to the panting, white-faced youth. "But I won't. I will
teach you a lesson instead. Yes, I will fight. Make what arrangements
you please; I'll be there. Now get out."

He held the door open; the young man said, as he passed,

"You shall hear from me."

And then Lionel went back to Lady Rosamund's ill-fated album, and began
to sponge it with blotting-paper, while with many a qualm he considered
how he was to apologize to her and make some kind of plausible
explanation. Fortunately the damage turned out to be less serious than
at first sight appeared. The open page, which contained a very charming
little sketch in water-color by Mr. Mellord, was of course hopelessly
ruined; but elsewhere the ink had not penetrated very far; a number of
new mounts would soon put that right. Then he thought he would go to Mr.
Mellord and lay the whole affair before him, and humbly beg for another
sketch (artists always being provided with such things); so that, as
r