words--an immediate silence should have fallen upon all those present.
All the actors in the little drawing-room drama, who had played their
respective parts so unerringly up to now, had paused a while, just as if an
invisible curtain had come down, marking the end of a scene, and the
interval during which the players might recover strength and energy to
resume their roles. The Prince of Wales as foremost spectator said
nothing for the moment, and beyond the doorway, the audience there
assembled seemed suddenly to be holding its breath, waiting--eager,
expectant, palpitation--for what would follow now.

Only here and there the gentle frou-frou of a silk skirt, the rhythmic
flutter of a fan, broke those few seconds' deadly, stony silence.

Yet it was all simple enough. A fracas between two ladies, the gentlemen
interposing, a few words of angry expostulation, then the inevitable
suggestion of Belgium or of some other country where the childish and
barbarous custom of settling such matters with a couple of swords had
not been as yet systematically stamped out.

The whole scene--with but slight variations--had occurred scores of times
in London drawing-rooms, English gentlemen had scores of times
crossed the Channel for the purpose of settling similar quarrels in
continental fashion.

Why should the present situation appear so abnormal? Sir Percy
Blakeney--an accomplished gentleman--was past master in the art of
fence, and looked more than a match in strength and dexterity for the
meagre, sable-clad little opponent who had so summarily challenged him
to cross over to France, in order to fight a duel.