And if there were, Chantel has the choice.

He'll take swords." He paused, in a silence that grew somewhat menacing.

From a slit in the wall the wheel of the punkah-thong whined insistently,--rise and fall, rise and fall of peevish complaint, distressing as a brain-fever bird.
"Swords, of course," continued Heywood.

"If only out of vanity.
Fencing,--oh, I hate the man, and the art's by-gone, if you like, but he's a beautiful swordsman! Wonderful!" Rudolph still lay back, but now with a singular calm.
"It's just as well," he declared quietly.
Heywood loosed a great breath, a sigh of vast relief.
"My word!" he cried, grinning.

"So you're there, too, eh?
You young Sly-boots! If you're another expert--Bravo! We'll beat him at his own game! Hoist with his own what-d'-ye-call-it! I'd give anything"-- He thumped the table, and pitched the cards broadcast, like an explosion of confetti, in a little carnival of glee.