“Oh, go to——”
“Hush—you must pull yourself together and listen to me——”
“Oh, go to the devil——”
“If you will not come indoors, then I must say it here, within earshot of these people.”
“I tell you I stand over these hounds until they have packed out of the place—do you hear me!” roared the stout old lord of the place. “Damn it, Overshaw, do you only understand lawyers’ swindling English? God in heaven, is my talk too cursedly effeminate for you that I must supply you with a glossary at the end of it? I have sworn it, by the living God, that these people leave my land before the sun sets—or,” he added hoarsely, “I go to hell for it.... Put that into your damned attorney’s gabble if you will—and I’ll sign it.”
He turned about as he walked and continued his striding. The lawyer turned and walked with him:
“Lord Wyntwarde, I will not remind you of a wise old saying that the sun should not go down upon our wrath.”
“Oh, damn your figurative landscapes,” said my lord.
“I do not ask you to save yourself from an injustice—I am only asking you to save yourself from an indignity—worse—from utter shame——”
“What have I to do with shame?”