Morrison muttered something unpleasant, but went on smoking, and at last Dick, who was sitting with his little legs dangling over the side of the chair, began.
“Fact is,” he said, “I’m going to speak out. I shan’t quarrel, and I’m such a little chap that you can’t hit me.”
“No; but I could throw you downstairs,” said Morrison, who was half amused, half annoyed by his visitor’s coming, though in his heart of hearts he longed to hear news of Renée.
“I saw my uncle yesterday.”
“Indeed! Poor old lunatic! What had he got to say?”
“Ah, there you are wrong!” said Dick sharply. “He said something which you will own proved that he was no lunatic.”
“What was it?” said Morrison coldly.
“That you were a confounded scoundrel.”
Frank Morrison jumped up in his chair, scowling angrily; but he threw himself back again with a contemptuous “Pish!”
“Proves it, don’t it?”