of course, when one is young, one is rather romantic. Do you know
what I always say to young people?"

A blank silence followed this gay inquiry. Then Turnbull said in
a colourless voice:

"As I was forty-seven last birthday, I probably came into the
world too soon for the experience."

"Very good, very good," said the friendly person. "Dry Scotch
humour. Dry Scotch humour. Well now. I understand that you two
people want to fight a duel. I suppose you aren't much up in the
modern world. We've quite outgrown duelling, you know. In fact,
Tolstoy tells us that we shall soon outgrow war, which he says is
simply a duel between nations. A duel between nations. But there
is no doubt about our having outgrown duelling."

Waiting for some effect upon his wooden auditors, the stranger
stood beaming for a moment and then resumed:

"Now, they tell me in the newspapers that you are really wanting
to fight about something connected with Roman Catholicism. Now,
do you know what I always say to Roman Catholics?"

"No," said Turnbull, heavily. "Do _they_?" It seemed to be a
characteristic of the hearty, hygienic gentleman that he always
forgot the speech he had made the moment before. Without
enlarging further on the fixed form of his appeal to the Church
of Rome, he laughed cordially at Turnbull's answer; then his
wandering blue eyes caught the sunlight on the swords, and he