. And yet he had not reached the stage of regret; he was sorry for
the wounded man and for his suffering, but he was not sorry for his own
share in causing it. He had only done his duty, and but for a stroke of
good luck he and Willits might have exchanged places. Uncle George had
expressed his feelings exactly when he said that only a bit of cold lead
could settle some insults, and what insult could have been greater than
the one for which he had shot Willits? What was a gentleman to do? Go
around meeting his antagonist every day?--the two ignoring each other?
Or was he to turn stable boy, and pound him with his fists?--or, more
ridiculous still, have him bound over to keep the peace, or bring an
action for--Bah!--for what?--Yes--for what? Willits hadn't struck
him, or wounded him, or robbed him. It had been his life or Willits's.
No--there was no other way--couldn't be any other way. Willits knew
it when he tore up Kate's card--knew what would follow. There was no
deception--nothing underhand. And he had got precisely what he deserved,
sorry as he felt for his sufferings.

Then Kate's face rose before him--haunted him. Why hadn't she seen
it this way? Why had she refused to look at him--refused to answer
him--driven him away from her side, in fact?--he who had risked his life
to save her from insult! Why wouldn't she allow him to even touch
her hand? Why did she treat Willits--drunken vulgarian as he
was--differently from the way she had treated him? She had broken off
her engagement with him because he was drunk at Mrs. Cheston's ball,
where nobody had been hurt but himself, and here she was sympathizing
with another drunken man who had not only outraged all sense of decency
toward her, but had jeopardized the life of her affianced husband who
defended her against his insults; none of which would have happened had
the man been sober. All this staggered him.

More astounding still was her indifference. She had not even asked if he
had escaped unhurt, but had concentrated all her interest upon the
man who had insulted her. As to his own father's wrath--that he had
expected. It was his way to break out, and this he knew would continue
until he realized the enormity of the insult to Kate and heard how he
and St. George had tried to ward off the catastrophe. Then he would not
only change his opinion, but would commend him for his courage.

Outside the sick-room such guests as could be trusted were gathered
together in t