“Perhaps not,” said Sir Richard, quietly. “But what’s the matter with you, old chap? Been having a row with Draycott?”
“Draycott’s a bumptious, pedantic old fool. Fancies he knows everything. A brute!”
“Take a couple of pills, Mark; your liver’s out of order.”
“Put an angel’s liver out of order to be here! I won’t put up with much more of it, and so I’ll tell him. I shall dress as I like, and do as I like, even if I haven’t got a handle to my name. Sir Richard, indeed!—a pattern for me to follow! Next time the fat old idiot say’s that to me, I’ll throw the books at his head.”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?”
“Yes; that’s it, is it!” cried Mark Frayne in an angry tone. “I tell you I’m sick of it!”
“Nonsense! What had you been doing?” said Richard, fighting down a feeling of resentment, and looking smilingly at his cousin.
“What’s that to you?” growled Mark.
“Not much; but I wanted to help the lame dog over the stile.”