“—­Take up their quarrel, or we are not men.  Nevertheless, boy, I cannot see the need of pistols.  The only conceivable case for violent redress, is woman’s wrong:  and he who wrongs a woman, cannot be a gentleman; therefore, ought not to be met on equal terms.  For other causes of duello, as hot-headed speeches, rudenesses, or slights, forgive, forbear to fan the flame, and never be above apologizing:  but in an outrage such as this, let a fine-built fellow, such as you are, George (and the women should show wisdom in their choice of champions), let a man, and a queen’s officer as you are, treat this brute, Julian Tracy, as a martinet huntsman would a hound thrown out.  As for me, boy, I’m going to call on Mrs. Tracy at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning—­and, without presuming to advise a six foot two of a son, I think—­I think, if I were you, I would be dutiful enough to say—­’Father, I will accompany you—­and take a horsewhip with me.’”

“Agreed, agreed, sir!” replied the well-pleased son, and her ladyship too vouchsafed her approbation.

Emily had gone to bed long ago, or rather to her chamber; where the three Misses Tamworth had been all kindness, curiosity, and consolation.  So, Sir Abraham and his lady, now the speech was finished, followed their example of retirement:  and the captain newly blood-knotted his hunting-whip, con amore, not to say con spirito, overnight.

Nobody will wonder to hear, that when the gallant representatives of army and navy called next morning at number seven, Mrs. Tracy and her son were “not at home:”  and of course it would be far too Julian-like a proceeding, for true gentleman to think of forcing their company on the probably ensconced in-dwellers.  Accordingly, they marched away, without having deigned to leave a card; the captain taking on himself the duty of perambulating sentinel, while his father proceeded to the library as usual.  Judge of the glad surprise, when, within ten minutes, our vindictive George perceived the admiral coming back again, full-sail, with the mother and son in tow, creeping amicably enough up the terrace.  Sir Abraham had given her his arm, and precious Mr. Julian was a little in the rear:  for the old folks were talking confidentially.

George St. Vincent, placing his whip in the well-known position of “Cane, a mystery,” advanced to meet them; and, just after passing his father, with whom he exchanged a very comfortable glance, discovered that the heroic Julian, who had caught a glimpse of the ill-concealed weapon, was slinking quickly round a corner to avoid him.  It was certainly undignified to run, but the gallant captain did run, nevertheless and soon caught the coward by the collar.