‘At your service, sir,’ Mr. Dunborough said, with a sarcastic bow.  ’But suppose, to save trouble in the morning, we fix time and place now.’

‘Eight—­in Magdalen Fields,’ Soane answered curtly.  ’If I do not hear from you, I am staying at the Mitre Inn.  Mr. Thomasson, I bid you good-night.  My lord, your servant.’

And with that, and though Mr. Thomasson, wringing his hands over what had occurred and the injury to himself that might come of it, attempted some feeble remonstrances, Sir George bowed sternly, took his hat and went down.  He found his chair at the foot of the stairs, but in consideration of the crowd he would not use it.  The college porters, indeed, pressed him to wait, and demurred to opening even the wicket.  But he had carried forbearance to the verge, and dreaded the least appearance of timidity; and, insisting, got his way.  The rabble admired so fine a gentleman, and so resolute a bearing, gave place to him with a jest, and let him pass unmolested down the lane.

It was well that they did, for he had come to the end of his patience.  One man steps out of a carriage, picks up a handkerchief, and lives to wear a Crown.  Another takes the same step; it lands him in a low squabble from which he may extricate himself with safety, but scarcely with an accession of credit.  Sir George belonged to the inner circle of fashion, to which neither rank nor wealth, nor parts, nor power, of necessity admitted.  In the sphere in which he moved, men seldom quarrelled and as seldom fought.  Of easiest habit among themselves, they left bad manners and the duello to political adventurers and cubbish peers, or to the gentlemen of the quarter sessions and the local ordinary.  It was with a mighty disgust, therefore, that Sir George considered alike the predicament into which a caprice had hurried him, and the insufferable young Hector whom fate had made his antagonist.  They would laugh at White’s.  They would make a jest of it over the cakes and fruit at Betty’s.  Selwyn would turn a quip.  And yet the thing was beyond a joke.  He must be a target first and a butt afterwards—­if any afterwards there were.

As he entered the Mitre, sick with chagrin, and telling himself he might have known that something of this kind would come of stooping to vulgar company, he bethought him—­for the first time in an hour—­of the girl.  ‘Lord!’ he said, thinking of her request, her passion, and her splendid eyes; and he stood.  For the age des philosophes, destiny seemed to be taking too large a part in the play.  This must be the very man with whom she had striven to embroil him!

His servant’s voice broke in on his thoughts.  ’At what hour will your honour please to be called?’ he asked, as he carried off the laced coat and wig.

Soane stifled a groan.  ‘Called?’ he said.  ’At half-past six.  Don’t stare, booby!  Half-past six, I said.  And do you go now, I’ll shift for myself.  But first put out my despatch-case, and see there is pen and ink.  It’s done?  Then be off, and when you come in the morning bring the landlord and another with you.’