‘You—­insolent rascal!’ the tutor stammered, losing in a moment all his dignity and becoming a pale flabby man, with the spite and the terror of crime in his face.  ‘You—­begone!  Begone, sir.’

‘Willingly,’ said the attorney, swelling with defiance.  ’You may tell your principal that when he means marriage, he may come to us.  Not before.  I take my leave, sir.  Good morning.’  And with that he strutted out and marched slowly and majestically down the stairs.

He bore off the honours of war.  Mr. Thomasson, left among his Titian copies, his gleaming Venuses, and velvet curtains, was a sorry thing.  The man who preserves a cloak of outward decency has always this vulnerable spot; strip him, and he sees himself as others see or may see him, and views his ugliness with griping qualms.  Mr. Thomasson bore the exposure awhile, sitting white and shaking in a chair, seeing himself and seeing the end, and, like the devils, believing and trembling.  Then he rose and staggered to a little cupboard, the door of which was adorned with a pretty Greek motto, and a hovering Cupid painted in a blue sky; whence he filled himself a glass of cordial.  A second glass followed; this restored the colour to his cheeks and the brightness to his eyes.  He shivered; then smacked his lips and began to reflect what face he should put upon it when he went to report to his pupil.

In deciding that point he made a mistake.  Unluckily for himself and others, in the version which he chose he was careful to include all matters likely to arouse Dunborough’s resentment; in particular he laid malicious stress upon the attorney’s scornful words about a marriage.  This, however—­and perhaps the care he took to repeat it—­had an unlooked-for result.  Mr. Dunborough began by cursing the rogue’s impudence, and did it with all the heat his best friend could desire.  But, being confined to his room, haunted by the vision of his flame, yet debarred from any attempt to see her, his mood presently changed; his heart became as water, and he fell into a maudlin state about her.  Dwelling constantly on memories of his Briseis—­whose name, by the way, was Julia—­having her shape and complexion, her gentle touch and her smile, always in his mind, while he was unable in the body to see so much as the hem of her gown, Achilles grew weaker in will as he grew stronger in body.  Headstrong and reckless by nature, unaccustomed to thwart a desire or deny himself a gratification, Mr. Dunborough began to contemplate paying even the last price for her; and one day, about three weeks after the duel, dropped a word which frightened Mr. Thomasson.

He was well enough by this time to be up, and was looking through one window while the tutor lounged in the seat of another.  On a sudden ‘Lord!’ said he, with a laugh that broke off short in the middle.  ’What was the queer catch that fellow sang last night?  About a bailiff’s daughter.  Well, why not a porter’s daughter?’