He spoke cold, good English, and there was anger in his voice.
"Do you hate being a gamekeeper?" she asked.
"Being a gamekeeper, no! So long as I'm left alone. But when I have to go messing around at the police station, and various other places, and waiting for a lot of fools to attend to me ... oh well, I get mad ..." and he smiled, with a certain faint humour.
"Couldn't you be really independent?" she asked.
"Me? I suppose I could, if you mean manage to exist on my pension. I could! But I've got to work, or I should die. That is, I've got to have something that keeps me occupied. And I'm not in a good enough temper to work for myself. It's got to be a sort of job for somebody else, or I should throw it up in a month, out of bad temper. So altogether I'm very well off here, especially lately...."
He laughed at her again, with mocking humour.
"But why are you in a bad temper?" she asked. "Do you mean you are always in a bad temper?"
"Pretty well," he said, laughing. "I don't quite digest my bile."
"But what bile?" she said.
"Bile!" he said. "Don't you know what that is?" She was silent, and disappointed. He was taking no notice of her.