"Not so. Mr. Trenchard shall wait upon your friends to-morrow, and I
hope you'll afford us then as felicitous entertainment as you do now."

Sir Rowland snorted, and, turning on his heel, made for the door.

"Give you a good night, Sir Rowland," Mr. Wilding called after him.
"Walters, you rascal, light Sir Rowland to the door."

Poor Blake went home deeply vexed; but it was no more than the beginning
of his humiliation at Mr. Wilding's hands - for what can be more
humiliating to a quarrel - seeking man than to have his enemy refuse
to treat him seriously? He and Mr. Wilding met next morning, and before
noon the tale of it had run through Bridgwater that Wild Wilding was at
his tricks again. It made a pretty story how twice he had disarmed and
each time spared the London beau, who still insisted - each time more
furiously -upon renewing the encounter, till Mr. Wilding had been
forced to run him through the sword-arm and thus put him out of all case
of continuing. It was a story that heaped ridicule upon Sir Rowland
and did credit to Mr. Wilding.

Richard heard it, and trembled, enraged and impotent. Ruth heard it,
and was stirred despite herself to a feeling of gratitude towards
Wilding for the patience and toleration he had displayed.

There for a while the matter rested, and the days passed slowly. But
Sir Rowland's nature - mean at bottom - was spurred to find him some
other way of wiping out the score that lay `twixt him and Mr. Wilding,
a score mightily increased by the shame that Mr. Wilding had put upon
him in that encounter from which - whatever the issue - he had looked