They had not been an hour in that house till some
altercation chanced to arise between George Colwan and a Mr.
Drummond, the younger son of a nobleman of distinction. It
was perfectly casual, and no one thenceforward, to this day,
could ever tell what it was about, if it was not about the
misunderstanding of some word or term that the one had uttered.
However it was, some high words passed between them; these
were followed by threats, and, in less than two minutes from the
commencement of the quarrel, Drummond left the house in
apparent displeasure, hinting to the other that they two should
settle that in a more convenient place.
The company looked at one another, for all was over before any
of them knew such a thing was begun. "What the devil is the
matter?" cried one. "What ails Drummond?" cried another. "Who
has he quarrelled with?" asked a third.
"Don't know."--"Can't tell, on my life."--"He has quarrelled with
his wine, I suppose, and is going to send it a challenge."
Such were the questions, and such the answers that passed in the
jovial party, and the matter was no more thought of.
But in the course of a very short space, about the length which the
ideas of the company were the next day at great variance, a sharp
rap came to the door.
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