“If I do, I malign them both. But I do not. I no more than condemn a fault that both must acknowledge could they return to life.” 

 “Then, Sir, confine your condemnings to your own father with whom no man of honour could have lived at peace....” 

 “Softly, softly, good Sir....” 

 “There’s no call to go softly. Ralph Tressilian was a dishonour, a scandal to the countryside. Not a hamlet between here and Truro, or between here and Helston, but swarms with big Tressilian noses like your own, in memory of your debauched parent.” 

 Sir Oliver’s eyes grew narrower: he smiled. “I wonder how you came by your own nose?” he wondered. 

 Master Godolphin got to his feet in a passion, and his chair crashed over behind him. “Sir,” he blazed, “you insult my mother’s memory!” 

 Sir Oliver laughed. “I make a little free with it, perhaps, in return for your pleasantries on the score of my father.” 

 Master Godolphin pondered him in speechless anger, then swayed by his passion he leaned across the board, raised his long cane and struck Sir Oliver sharply on the shoulder. 

 That done, he strode off magnificently towards the door. Half-way thither he paused. 

 “I shall expect your friends and the length of your sword,” said he. 

 Sir Oliver laughed again. “I don’t think I shall trouble to send them,” said he. 

 Master Godolphin wheeled, fully to face him again. “How? You will take a blow?” 

 Sir Oliver shrugged. “None saw it given,” said he. 

 “But I shall publish it abroad that I have caned you.” 

 “You’ll publish yourself a liar if you do; for none will believe you.” Then he changed his tone yet again. “Come, Peter, we are behaving unworthily. As for the blow, I confess that I deserved it. A man’s mother is more sacred than his father. So we may cry quits on that score. Can we not cry quits on all else? What can it profit us to perpetuate a foolish quarrel that sprang up between our fathers?” 

 “There is more than that between us,” answered Master Godolphin. “I’ll not have my sister wed a pirate.” 

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