Deathly pale, his uncle lifted his eyebrows at the graceful gesture.
"You do it fairly, nephew," he said ironically yet faintly,--"fairly in such little things; but a gentleman, your uncle, your elder, with fists--that smacks of low company!" Gaston made a frank reply as he smothered his pride "I am sorry for the blow, sir; but was the fault all mine ?" "The fault?
Is that the question?
Faults and manners are not the same.
At bottom you lack in manners; and that will ruin you at last." "You slighted my mother!" "Oh, no! and if I had, you should not have seen it." "I am not used to swallow insults.

It is your way, sir.

I know your dealings with my father." "A little more brandy, please.

But your father had manners, after all.
You are as rash as he; and in essential matters clownish--which he was not." Gaston was well in hand now, cooler even than his uncle.
"Perhaps you will sum up your criticism now, sir, to save future explanation; and then accept my apology." "To apologise for what no gentleman pardons or does, or acknowledges openly when done--H'm! Were it not well to pause in time, and go back to your wild North?
Why so difficult a saddle--Tartarin after Napoleon?
Think--Tartarin's end!" Gaston deprecated with a gesture: "Can I do anything for you, sir ?" His uncle now stood up, but swayed a little, and winced from sudden pain.

A wave of malice crossed his face.
"It's a pity we are relatives, with France so near," he said, "for I see you love fighting." After an instant he added, with a carelessness as much assumed as natural: "You may ring the bell, and tell Falby to come to my room.