had anyone look at me, who seemed to so frankly dislike me.

Curiously enough, I kept thinking of the story of the man who boasted
he was so good a shot that he could break the stem of a wine-glass,
and how someone said: "Yes, but the wine-glass isn't holding a
pistol." Then, while I was smiling at the application I had made of
this story to my scowling adversary, there came up a picture, not of
home and of Beatrice, nor of my past sins, but of the fellow's sister
as I last saw her in the moonlight, leaning against the pillar of the
balcony with her head bowed in her hands. And at once it all seemed
contemptible and cruel. No quarrel in the world, so it appeared to me
then, was worth while if it were going to make a woman suffer. And for
an instant I was so indignant with Fiske for having dragged me into
this one, to feed his silly vanity, that for a moment I felt like
walking over and giving him a sound thrashing. But at the instant I
heard Graham demand, "Are you ready?" and I saw Fiske fasten his eyes
on mine, and nod his head. The moment had come.

"One," Graham counted, and at the word Fiske threw up his gun and
fired, and the ball whistled past my ear. My pistol was still hanging
at my side, so I merely pulled the trigger, and the ball went into the
ground. But instantly I saw my mistake. Shame and consternation were
written on the faces of my two seconds, and to the face of Fiske there
came a contemptuous smile. I at once understood my error. I read what
was in the mind of each. They dared to think I had pulled the trigger
through nervousness, that I had fired before I was ready, that I was
frightened and afraid. I am sure I never was so angry in my life, and
I would have cried out to them, if a movement on the part of Fiske had
not sobered me. Still smiling, he lifted his pistol slightly and aimed
for, so it seemed to me, some seconds, and then fired.