A hush fell across the room as Bentley climbed to his feet and thrust an accusatory finger at Darcy. “You, sir, are a buffoon!” he said.
“And you, sir,” returned Darcy, “are a bounder of the third ring.”

Bentley, visibly enraged by this, withdrew from within his waistcoat a glove of immaculate whiteness, with which he proceeded to strike Darcy repeatedly about the face. “I demand satisfaction! Satisfaction, I say!” cried he.

“Very well, sir, I shall give you such at dawn tomorrow,” replied Darcy. “With what shall we duel?”
Bentley smirked. “I choose – the Banjo!”

A gasp rippled through the room as Darcy's eyes narrowed. “It is just as I suspected all along. You, sir, are no gentleman.”