Tinman raised his head, as often at Helmstone when some offending shopwoman was to hear her doom.
He bent to her. “I see. Before your father, then!”
“It isn’t an agreeable bit of business, to me,” Van Diemen grumbled, frowning and shrugging.
“I have come, Annette, to ask you, to beg you, entreat—before a third person—laughing, Philip?”
“The wrong side of my mouth, my friend. And I’ll tell you what: we’re in for heavy seas, and I ‘m not sorry you’ve taken the house on the beach off my hands.”
“Pray, Mr. Tinman, speak at once, if you please, and I will do my best. Papa vexes you.”
“No, no,” replied Tinman.
He renewed his commencement. Van Diemen interrupted him again.
“Hang your power over me, as you call it. Eh, old Mart? I’m a Deserter. I’ll pay a thousand pounds to the British army, whether they punish me or not. March me off tomorrow!”
“Papa, you are unjust, unkind.” Annette turned to him in tears.