“Humph!” grunted the man, as he obeyed and began to smoke.
“Now,” said the artist, cheerily, after a few minutes’ silence, “what’s wrong with you? At least, I need not ask that. You have quarrelled with your old friend and employer, for no reason, and it’s no end of a pity, I can assure you. You will not mind my speaking out plainly like this, as man to man, for I have known you a long time now; and besides, I’m under a debt to you for helping me that night.”
“Humph!” said the man again.
“Now,” said the artist, “has all this sulking done you any good?”
“Good!” growled the man. “Good! No. There has been no good in my life. I have slaved it all away for a thankless taskmaster.”
“Bah!” said the artist, with a laugh. “Mr Willows a taskmaster! Why, it’s too absurd! He’s one of the very best men that ever lived; and in your heart of hearts you know it, Drinkwater. You know it quite well.”
“I want revenge,” said the man.
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the artist. “Revenge! Why, Drinkwater, it’s really funny. Revenge! What are you going to do? Blow up the mill?”
“Eh?” said the man, shifting uneasily in his seat and turning to stare at his companion. “Blow up the mill? What, me?”
“There, there,” said Manners, “I didn’t mean it. It was only a joke. Think it over, Drinkwater. Think it over,” he continued, as the man rose; and the artist held out his hand, but whether it was the darkness which prevented his seeing the gesture, or for some other reason, the hand was not taken, and a moment later the man had entered the cottage, while the artist got up to follow him, for it was very late and he was tired.