“Hullo!” said my brother. “Good-morning to you, doctor, and a sixpence to toss for your next threppenny fee.”
“Hold your tongue,” cried my father, angrily.
“I would give a guinea to get half for attending on your inquest,” said the doctor, sourly. “Keep your wit for your wench, my good lad, and see then that she don’t go begging.”
“I could give you better,” muttered Jason, cowed by my father’s presence, “but it shall keep and mature.” Then he turned boisterously on me.
“Why don’t you go out, Renny, instead of moping at home all day?”
His manner was aggressive, his tone calculated to exasperate.
Moved by discretion I rose from my chair and made for the door; but he barred my way.
“Can’t you answer me?” he said, with an ugly scowl.
“No—I don’t want to. Let me pass.”
My father had turned his back upon us and was staring gloomily down at the fire.