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“Yes,” rang out the Doctor, “afraid; afraid! God forbid that I should not be afraid. But I will tell you what I do not fear–I do not fear to call your affairs of honor–murder!”

“My son!” cried the father.

“I retract,” cried the son; “consider it unsaid. I will never reproach my father.”

“It is well,” said the father. “I was wrong. It is my quarrel. I go to settle it myself.”

Dr. Mossy moved quickly between his father and the door. General Villivicencio stood before him utterly bowed down.

“What will you?” sadly demanded the old man.

“Papa,” said the son, with much tenderness, “I cannot permit you. Fifteen years we were strangers, and yesterday were friends. You must not leave me so. I will even settle this quarrel for you. You must let me. I am pledged to your service.”

The peace-loving little doctor did not mean “to settle,” but “to adjust.” He felt in an instant that he was misunderstood; yet, as quiet people are apt to do, though not wishing to deceive, he let the misinterpretation stand. In his embarrassment he did not know with absolute certainty what he should do himself.

The father’s face–he thought of but one way to settle a quarrel–began instantly to brighten. “I would myself do it,” he said, apologetically, “but my friends forbid it.”

“And so do I,” said the Doctor, “but I will go myself now, and will not return until all is finished. Give me the paper.”

“My son, I do not wish to compel you.”

There was something acid in the Doctor’s smile as he answered:

“No; but give me the paper, if you please.”

The General handed it.

“Papa,” said the son, “you must wait here for my return.”

“But I have an appointment at Maspero’s at”–

“I will call and make excuse for you,” said the son.

“Well,” consented the almost happy father, “go, my son; I will stay. But if some of your sick shall call?”

“Sit quiet,” said the son. “They will think no one is here.” And the General noticed that the dust lay so thick on the panes that a person outside would have to put his face close to the glass to see within.

In the course of half an hour the Doctor had reached the newspaper office, thrice addressed himself to the wrong person, finally found the courteous editor, and easily convinced him that his father had been imposed upon; but when Dr. Mossy went farther, and asked which one of the talented editorial staff had written the article:

“You see, Doctor,” said the editor–“just step into my private office a moment.”

They went in together. The next minute saw Dr. Mossy departing hurriedly from the place, while the editor complacently resumed his pen, assured that he would not return.

General Villivicencio sat and waited among the serpents and innocents. His spirits began to droop again. Revolving Mossy’s words, he could not escape the fear that possibly, after all, his son might compromise the Villivicencio honor in the interests of peace. Not that he preferred to put his son’s life in jeopardy; he would not object to an adjustment, provided the enemy should beg for it. But if not, whom would his son select to perform those friendly offices indispensable in polite quarrels? Some half-priest, half-woman? Some spectacled book-worm? He suffered.

The monotony of his passive task was relieved by one or two callers who had the sagacity (or bad manners) to peer through the dirty glass, and then open the door, to whom, half rising from his chair, he answered, with a polite smile, that the Doctor was out, nor could he say how long he might be absent. Still the time dragged painfully, and he began at length to wonder why Mossy did not return.

There came a rap at the glass door different from all the raps that had forerun it–a fearless, but gentle, dignified, graceful rap; and the General, before he looked round, felt in all his veins that it came from the young Madame. Yes, there was her glorious outline thrown side wise upon the glass. He hastened and threw open the door, bending low at the same instant, and extending his hand.