"Sir Percy ..."

"Sir?"

Chauvelin, who for one moment had seemed ready to lose his temper,
now made a sudden effort to resume a calm and easy attitude and said
quietly:

"Of course, if one of us is coward enough to shirk the contest ..."

He did not complete the sentence, but shrugged his shoulders expressive
of contempt. The other side of the curtained doorway a little crowd had
gradually assembled, attracted hither by the loud and angry voices which
came from that small boudoir. Host and hostess had been missed from
the reception rooms for some time, His Royal Highness, too, had not
been seen for the quarter of an hour: like flies attracted by the light, one
by one, or in small isolated groups, some of Lady Blakeney's quests had
found their way to the room adjoining the royal presence.

As His Highness was standing in the doorway itself, no one could of
course cross the threshold, but everyone could see into the room, and
could take stock of the various actors in the little comedy. They were
witnessing a quarrel between the French envoy and Sir Percy Blakeney
wherein the former was evidently in deadly earnest and the latter merely
politely bored. Amused comments flew to and fro: laughter and a babel
of irresponsible chatter made an incessant chirruping accompaniment to
the duologue between the two men.

But at this stage, the Prince of Wales, who hitherto had seemingly kept
aloof from the quarrel, suddenly stepped forward and abruptly interposed