his leg. But I remembered my father's
word, who had told me that gentlemen should properly kill each other
over a matter of one liking oranges and the other not liking oranges.
It was the custom among men of position, he had said, and of course a
way was not clear to changing this custom at the time. However, I
determined that if I lived I would insist upon all these customs being
moderated and re-directed. For my part I was willing that any man
should like oranges.

I decided that I must go for a walk. To sit and gloom in my room until
the time of the great affair would do me no good in any case. In fact
it was likely to do me much harm. I went forth to the garden in the
rear of the inn. Here spread a lawn more level than a ballroom floor.
There was a summer-house and many beds of flowers. On this day there
was nobody abroad in the garden but an atrocious parrot, which,
balancing on its stick, called out continually raucous cries in a
foreign tongue.

I paced the lawn for a time, and then took a seat in the summer-house.
I had been there but a moment when I perceived Lady Mary and the
Countess come into the garden. Through the leafy walls of the
summer-house I watched them as they walked slowly to and fro on the
grass. The mother had evidently a great deal to say to the daughter.
She waved her arms and spoke with a keen excitement.

But did I overhear anything? I overheard nothing! From what I knew of
the proper conduct of the really thrilling episodes of life I judged
that I should have been able to overhear almost every word of this
conversation. Instead, I could only see the Countess making irritated
speech to Lady Mary.

Moreover it was legitimate that I should have been undetected in the
summer-house. On the contrary, they were perfectly aware that there
was somebody there, and so in their promenade they presented it with a
distinguished isolation.

No old maid ever held her ears so wide open. But I could hear nothing
but a murmur of angry argument from the Countess and a murmur of
gentle objection from Lady Mary. I was in possession of an ideal place
from which to overhear conversation. Almost every important
conversation ever held had been overheard from a position of this
kind. It seemed unfair that I, of all men in literature, should be
denied this casual and usual privilege.

The Countess harangued in a low voice at great length; Lady Mary
answered from time to time, admitting this and admitting that