rning call, somewhere in the narrative you were sure
to hear that he was "a gentleman," or "a Russian gentleman," commonly
the latter; and he always accompanied the news with a straightening of
his heavy shoulders and a threatening pull at his mustache as though he
expected to find his word disputed and planned a terrible return.

It could not be called Storri's fault that it was not three hundred
years since his forebears wore sheepskins, carried clubs, and made a
fire by judiciously rubbing one stick against another. None the less,
this nearness to a stone age left him barbarous in his heart; and the
layer of civilization that was upon him was not a layer, but a polish--a
sheen, and neither so thick nor so tangible as moonshine on a lake. The
savageries of Richard were quite as vivid as Storri's, perhaps; but at
least they had been advantageously hidden beneath a top-dressing of
eleven civilizing centuries instead of three; and those eight extra
centuries made all the difference in life. They gave Richard steadiness
and self-control; for the first separation between civilization and
barbarism lies in this, that a civilized man is more readily quieted
after a stampede than is your barbarous one. Also he is not so wide open
to original surprise.

Wherefore, when Richard and Storri stood glaring at one another after
the episode of the hands, Richard had vastly the better of Storri, who
fell into a three-ply mood of amazement, fright, and rage. Finally,
Storri seemed to mutter threats while he retreated; and at the last got
himself out of the Harley front door in rather an incoherent way. It was
understood that he mumbled "Good-afternoon!" to Dorothy; and that "he
would talk with him again," to Richard; and all as he found his hat with
his left hand, the right meanwhile wrapped in a handkerchief which was a
smudge of blood. It could not be described as a graceful exit and had
many of the features of a rout; but it was effective, and took Storri
successfully into the street. Dorothy, still transfixed, turned with
round eyes to Richard:

"What was it you did?" she asked again.

"It was nothing," replied Richard with a shrug. "Or if anything, then a
piece of primitive sarcasm. Really, I'm sorry, since you were here; but
I had no choice."

"Will there be a duel?" gurgled Dorothy, catching her breath.

Dorothy, among other valuable ideas derived from novels, had gained a
middle-age impression that made flashing blades an