“You here, eh!” he exclaimed, in a tone of anger, addressing himself to Rawton.
“Right you be, doctor,” returned the gipsy. “I’m here, as you see.”
“And pray, sir, if it is not an impudent question,” observed the doctor, with bitter irony, “may I inquire how it is that I find you holding a secret conference with my wife? But I need not ask. I can make a pretty shrewd guess.”
“If you can guess, I wouldn’t trouble myself to inquire, if I were you,” said Rawton, nothing moved.
“You are an impudent, low-bred fellow,” cried Bourne, in a towering passion. “How dare you have the impertinence to address this lady, and what can you be thinking of to encourage the visits of such a low ruffian, madam?”
This last observation was made to his wife, who was too distressed and overcome to make any reply.
“You were out,” said Bill, “and I asked to see your lady. ’spose there’s no great harm in that?”
“Harm!” cried Bourne. “Don’t imagine you can deceive me. I ask you again, what brought you hither?”
“Why my legs, of course; I ain’t got a carriage, and so had to walk.”
“Hark ye, my man, let me have no more of your impudence, or I shall find means to punish you. I say, again, what business have you here holding a conference with Mrs. Bourne, who ought to be ashamed of herself to be seen conversing with such a ruffian. Answer my question without any more ado.”