"He is--he is--he is--" He paused, breathing like a fighting dog.

Frowenfeld, large, white, and immovable, stood close before him.
"Dey 'ad no bizniz led 'im come oud to-day," said a bystander, edging toward a pillar.
The Creole, a small young man not unknown to us, glared upon the apothecary; but Frowenfeld was far above his blushing mood, and was not disconcerted.

This exasperated the Creole beyond bound; he made a sudden, angry change of attitude, and demanded: "Do you interrup' two gen'lemen in dey conve'sition, you Yankee clown?
Do you igno' dad you 'ave insult me, off-scow'ing ?" Frowenfeld's first response was a stern gaze.

When he spoke, he said: "Sir, I am not aware that I have ever offered you the slightest injury or affront; if you wish to finish your conversation with this gentleman, I will wait till you are through." The Creole bowed, as a knight who takes up the gage.

He turned to Valentine.
"Valentine, I was sayin' to you dad diz pusson is a cowa'd and a sneak; I repead thad! I repead id! I spurn you! Go f'om yeh!" The apothecary stood like a cliff.
It was too much for Creole forbearance.