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Tony could not follow every word of it, his Italian was not good enough. But what he heard made his blood race. He put a hand on the other’s shoulder and swung him round so that they were face to face. Gasparri gave him one contemptuous look and continued his remarks to Yolanda. His vocabulary was large. She had probably heard a good deal of it before; but Tony had not, and he went blind with rage. When the red mist cleared from his eyes Gasparri was slowly rising from the floor, and his face was not pretty to see; but Tony was not interested in that. Yolanda was standing beside him, her black eyes wide and strained. “For the love of God, go now,” she said, “or you will make things worse than they are———”

“Are you all right?”

She laughed. “What can hurt me?”

Gasparri had risen, his handkerchief to his mouth, “You will hear from me in the morning,” he said. His voice was grating. Tony wondered in some detached portion of his brain whether that was because a tooth or two was gone, but he only bowed, saying nothing, and left.

Gasparri and he met early on the second day from that evening, Guittoni being Tony’s second. It was a short affair, and Tony came out of it better than he expected or deserved. He received a graze on the ribs, but his bullet entered near Gasparri’s left lung, and did some harm. It was pure chance; Gasparri was by far the better pistol-shot.

Tony had written to ask if he might see Yolanda before his hurried departure, arranged by Paolo, who was anxious. He thought she might be in trouble, but she would not see him. He wondered if it was anger, or propriety, or prudence, or—what? But in any case there was nothing for him to do but take his leave, he was not proud of this