His grace's half-contemptuous smile was dissipated.
"This is mere trifling, Mr.Caryll," he reminded his principal, "and time is speeding.

Your withdrawal now would not only be damaging to yourself; it would be damaging to the lady of whose fair name you have made yourself the champion.

You must see that it is too late for doubts on the score of this meeting." "Ay--by God!" swore Gascoigne hotly.

"What a pox ails you, Caryll ?" Mr.Caryll took off his hat and flung it on the ground behind him.
"We must go on, then," said he.

"Gascoigne, see to the swords with his lordship's friend there." With a relieved look, the major went forward to make the final preparations, whilst Mr.Caryll, attended by Wharton, rapidly divested himself of coat and waistcoat, then kicked off his light shoes, and stood ready, a slight, lithe, graceful figure in white Holland shirt and pearl-colored small clothes.
A moment later the adversaries were face to face--Rotherby, divested of his wig and with a kerchief bound about his close-cropped head, all a trembling eagerness; Mr.Caryll with a reluctance lightly masked by a dangerous composure.
There was a perfunctory salute--a mere presenting of arms--and the blades swept round in a half-circle to their first meeting.