realism rather far.

"These will do," said the strange person with the red beard.
"And perhaps I had better pay for them at once. And as you are
the challenger, Mr. MacIan, perhaps you had better explain the
situation."

The tall Scotchman in grey took a step forward and spoke in a
voice quite clear and bold, and yet somehow lifeless, like a man
going through an ancient formality.

"The fact is, Mr. Gordon, we have to place our honour in your
hands. Words have passed between Mr. Turnbull and myself on a
grave and invaluable matter, which can only be atoned for by
fighting. Unfortunately, as the police are in some sense pursuing
us, we are hurried, and must fight now and without seconds. But
if you will be so kind as to take us into your little garden and
see far play, we shall feel how----"

The shopman recovered himself from a stunning surprise and burst
out:

"Gentlemen, are you drunk? A duel! A duel in my garden. Go
home, gentlemen, go home. Why, what did you quarrel about?"

"We quarrelled," said Evan, in the same dead voice, "about
religion." The fat shopkeeper rolled about in his chair with
enjoyment.

"Well, this is a funny game," he said. "So you want to commit