Mr. Redworth declared the term to be simply hypothetical.  ’If you fight, you’re a donkey for doing it.  But you won’t fight.’

‘But I will fight.’

‘He won’t fight.’

’Then for the honour of your country you must.  But I’d rather have him first, for I haven’t drunk with him, and it should be a case of necessity to put a bullet or a couple of inches of steel through the man you’ve drunk with.  And what’s in your favour, she danced with ye.  She seemed to take to ye, and the man she has the smallest sugar-melting for is sacred if he’s not sweet to me.  If he retracts!’

‘Hypothetically, No.’

‘But supposititiously?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then we grasp hands on it.  It’s Malkin or nothing!’ said Mr. Sullivan Smith, swinging his heel moodily to wander in search of the foe.  How one sane man could name another a donkey for fighting to clear an innocent young lady’s reputation, passed his rational conception.

Sir Lukin hastened to Mr. Redworth to have a talk over old schooldays and fellows.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said the civilian, ’There are Irishmen and Irishmen.  I’ve met cool heads and long heads among them, and you and I knew Jack Derry, who was good at most things.  But the burlesque Irishman can’t be caricatured.  Nature strained herself in a ’fit of absurdity to produce him, and all that Art can do is to copy.’

This was his prelude to an account of Mr. Sullivan Smith, whom, as a specimen, he rejoiced to have met.

‘There’s a chance of mischief,’ said Sir Lukin.  ’I know nothing of the man he calls Malkin.  I’ll inquire presently.’

He talked of his prospects, and of the women.  Fair ones, in his opinion, besides Miss Merion were parading; he sketched two or three of his partners with a broad brush of epithets.

‘It won’t do for Miss Merion’s name to be mixed up in a duel,’ said Redworth.

‘Not if she’s to make her fortune in England,’ said Sir Lukin.  ’It’s probably all smoke.’

The remark had hardly escaped him when a wreath of metaphorical smoke, and fire, and no mean report, startled the company of supping gentlemen.  At the pitch of his voice, Mr. Sullivan Smith denounced Mr. Malkin in presence for a cur masquerading as a cat.

‘And that is not the scoundrel’s prime offence.  For what d’ ye think?  He trumps up an engagement to dance with a beautiful lady, and because she can’t remember, binds her to an oath for a dance to come, and then, holding her prisoner to ’m, he sulks, the dirty dogcat goes and sulks, and he won’t dance and won’t do anything but screech up in corners that he’s jilted.  He said the word.  Dozens of gentlemen heard the word.  And I demand an apology of Misterr Malkin—­or . . !  And none of your guerrier nodding and bravado, Mister Malkin, at me, if you please.  The case is for settlement between gentlemen.’

The harassed gentleman of the name of Malkin, driven to extremity by the worrying, stood in braced preparation for the English attitude of defence.  His tormentor drew closer to him.