Be seated, my son. Brutus, it is three o'clock. Bring in the Madeira, and
the noon meal."

I did not reply, and he stood for a moment watching me narrowly. Brutus
threw another log on the fire, which gave off a brisk crackling from the
bed of coals. He then stood waiting doubtfully, until my father nodded.

"Take the door out as you go," my father directed. "Mademoiselle,
permit me."

He pointed out an armchair beside the fire. "And you, my son, opposite.
So." From the side pocket of his coat he drew a silver mounted pistol,
which he examined with studious attention.

"Come," he said, slipping it back, "let us be tranquil. Is there any
reason to bear ill will simply because we each stand on an opposite side
of a question of ethics? If you had only been to the wars, how
differently you would see it. There hundreds of men stab each other with
the best will in the world, none of the crudeness of personal animosity,
only the best of good nature. In a little time now we shall part, never,
if I can help it, to meet again. You have seen me as a dangerous,
reckless man, without any principles worth mentioning. Indeed, I have so
few that I shall have recourse to violence, my son, if you do not assume
a more reposeful manner. The evening will be active enough to make any
further excitement quite superfluous. Have patience. An hour or so means
little to anyone so young."

There fell a silence while he stood immovably watching us. A gust of wind
blew down the chimney, and scattered a cloud of dust over the hearth. The
rafters creaked. Somewhere in the stillness a door slammed. The very lack