'I'm a father, I am!' continued Mosk, defiantly, 'an' as good a father as you. My gal's goin' to marry your son. Now, m' lord, what have you to say to that?'
'Moderate your tone, my man,' said the bishop, imperiously; 'a conversation conducted in this manner can hardly be productive of good results either to yourself or to your daughter.'
'I don' mean any 'arm!' replied Mosk, rather cowed, 'but I mean to 'ave m' rights, I do.'
'Your rights? What do you mean?'
'M' rights as a father,' explained the man, sulkily. 'Your son's bin runnin' arter m' gal, and lowerin' of her good name.'
'Hold your tongue, sir. Mr Pendle's intentions with regard to Miss Mosk are most honourable.'
'They'd better be,' threatened the other, 'or I'll know how to make 'em so. Ah, that I shall.'
'You talk idly, man,' said the bishop, coldly.
'I talk wot'll do, m' lord. Who's yer son, anyhow? My gal's as good as he, an' a sight better. She's born on the right side of the blanket, she is. There now!'
A qualm as of deadly sickness seized Dr Pendle, and he started from his chair with a pale face and a startled eye.