"Yes," nodded Jack, "I think we could do no better than Christmas Day."
"A devilish strange time for a duel," says Bentley, "peace on earth, and all that sort of thing, you know."
"Why, it's Pen," says Jack, staring hard into the fire, "she will be at her Aunt Sophia's then, which is fortunate on the whole. I shouldn't care for her to see me--when they bring me home."
For a long time it seemed to me none of us spoke. I fumbled through all my pockets for my snuff-box without finding it (which was strange), and looking up presently, I saw that Bentley had upset his wine, which was trickling down his satin waistcoat all unnoticed.
"Jack," says I at last, "a Gad's name, lend me your snuff-box!"
"And now," says he, "suppose we have a hand at picquet."