The writer’s eyes rose, and dropped again upon his writing.
“What do you want with him?”
“He asked me to wait here for him.”
“Better wait, then.”
Just then in came the merchant. Richling rose, and he uttered a rude exclamation:—
“I forgot you completely! Where did you say you kept books at, last?”
“I’ve not kept anybody’s books yet, but I can do it.”
The merchant’s response was cold and prompt. He did not look at Richling, but took a sample vial of molasses from a dirty mantel-piece and lifted it between his eyes and the light, saying:—
“You can’t do any such thing. I don’t want you.”
“Sir,” said Richling, so sharply that the merchant looked round, “if you don’t want me I don’t want you; but you mustn’t attempt to tell me that what I say is not true!” He had stepped forward as he began to speak, but he stopped before half his words were uttered, and saw his folly. Even while his voice still trembled with passion and his head was up, he colored with mortification. That feeling grew no less when his offender simply looked at him, and the man at the desk did not raise his eyes. It rather increased when he noticed that both of them were young—as young as he.