“Eh,” said the traveller, looking up much astonished. “Eh, down?—oh, you’re satirical, sir.”
“Satirical, sir? upon my word, no!” exclaimed the parson, earnestly.
“I think every freeborn man has a right to sit as he pleases in his own house,” resumed the traveller, with warmth; “and an inn is his own house, I guess, so long as he pays his score. Betty, my dear.”
For the chambermaid had now replied to the bell. “I han’t Betty, sir; do you want she?”
“No, Sally; cold brandy and water—and a biscuit.”
“I han’t Sally, either,” muttered the chambermaid; but the traveller, turning round, showed so smart a neckcloth and so comely a face, that she smiled, coloured, and went her way.
The traveller now rose, and flung down the paper. He took out a penknife, and began paring his nails. Suddenly desisting from this elegant occupation, his eye caught sight of the parson’s shovel-hat, which lay on a chair in the corner.
“You’re a clergyman, I reckon, sir,” said the traveller, with a slight sneer.
Again Mr. Dale bowed,—bowed in part deprecatingly, in part with dignity. It was a bow that said, “No offence, sir, but I am a clergyman, and I’m not ashamed of it.”
“Going far?” asked the traveller.