"Ay," Angus Mackay agreed with a grim smile, "and maybe for five hundred years back of that. But always pretty men of their hands, good friends and bad enemies, and ill to frighten or drive." Then, following the custom of his blood, he returned insult for insult. He launched it deliberately, coldly. "And it is not claiming much for the blood of a Mackay to say it is as good as that which comes from any shockheaded kernes spawned by a Galway bog."
White to his twitching lips, Godfrey French struck him in the face. Angus caught his hand, but made no attempt to return the blow.
"I think you had better go," he said. "You have too many years on your head for me."
Godfrey French stepped back.
"That is my misfortune," he said. "Well—I have sons. Remember what I told you, young man."
"I will remember," Angus said, "and I will do as I please. If your sons try to make your words good they will find a rough piece of road."
He watched Godfrey French drive away, and turned back to his work. But presently he gave it up, sat down and stared at vacancy. For an hour he sat, and was aroused from his brown study by Jean.
"I've called and called you," she told him.
"For what?"
"For supper, of course. Heavens, Angus, what's wrong that you forget your meals?"