When, therefore, in ordering the printing of the gigantic posters which heralded the concert, he directed his own name to be placed at the head of the “eminent artists who had offered their services for the occasion,” and in type half as large again as any of the rest, he only expressed a conscientious opinion of his superiority over all of them.  In this opinion his associates happened to disagree with him, each one claiming that himself, and nobody else, was entitled to typographical precedence.

Most keenly was the alleged injustice felt by Signer Mancussi, who stood at the foot of the sloping list in letters less than an inch long; and he had made a solemn vow to revenge himself on M. Bartin the first time that they met after the concert.  Their simultaneous appearance at Mrs. Slapman’s was that time.  M. Bartin had been privately informed of the Signer’s intentions, and regretted that that gentleman’s ridiculous vanity should get the better of his judgment.  Seeing him at Mrs. Slapman’s, M. Bartin avoided the Signer’s presence, fearing they might come into a collision disgraceful to the time and the place.  The Signer, for the same considerate reasons, kept shy of M. Bartin.  After dodging each other for a long time, they were at last brought, by accident, face to face.  M. Bartin was calm.  Signor Mancussi tried to be tranquil, but those small, lean black letters at the foot of the list rose vividly to his mind; and, before he could check himself, he had whispered, or hissed, between his set teeth, the word,

“SCOUNDREL!”

M. Bartin was taken unawares, but had sufficient presence of mind to reply, “You’re another,” in a whisper, low, but freighted with meaning.

Whereupon the Signor responded, also under his breath, “You’re no gentleman.”  To this assertion, M. Bartin answered, with masterly irony, “And you are a gentleman, now, a’n’t you?”

Up to this point the controversy had been pleasantly conducted in whispers, and was unnoticed by the bystanders; but M. Bartin’s last insinuation had the strange effect of maddening the Signor still more.  He lost his self-control, and said, in an audible voice: 

“You’re only a scraper of catgut, anyhow.”

M. Bartin, also oblivious of the proprieties, retorted, louder still: 

“And what are you but an infernal screech owl?”

Cries of “Hallo!” “What’s the row?” “Hush!” and “For shame!” rose from all parts of the room, and the two musical gentlemen, conscious that they had grossly misconducted themselves, stepped back a yard from each other, and were immediately surrounded by several friends, and kindly told that they were a pair of fools.

Mrs. Slapman and Overtop rushed to the spot.  The latter measured the two combatants with his eye, to see if he could safely undertake to pitch both, or either of them, out of the room, if requested so to do by the widow, and concluded that he could not.