"She can wait. She does not know you are here. James, remain outside until
Mr. Brett returns. Then conduct him to your mistress."

Capella's tone admitted of no argument, nor was it necessary to protest.
Brett always liked people to talk in the way they deemed best suited to
their own interests. Without any expostulation, therefore, he followed his
limping host into a luxuriously furnished dressing-room.

Capella closed the door, and placed himself gently on a couch.

"Does your friend fight?" he said, fixing his dark eyes, blazing with
anger, intently on the other.

"That is a matter on which your opinion would probably be more valuable
than mine."

"Spare me your wit. You know well what I mean. Will he meet me on the
Continent and settle our quarrel like a gentleman, not like a hired
bravo?"

"What quarrel?"

"Mr. Brett, you are not so stupid. David Hume, notwithstanding his past,
may still be deemed a man of honour in some respects. He treated me
grossly this morning. Will he fight me, or must I treat him as a cur?"

Brett, without invitation, seated himself. He produced a cigarette and lit
it, adding greatly to Capella's irritation by his provoking calmness.