He looked up and saw, through the fire, the face of Davray the painter.
He turned to go, and at once Davray was at his side.
"No. Don't go. You're in my country now, Archdeacon, not your own. You're not cock of this walk, you know. Last time we met you thought you owned the place. Well, you can't think you own this. Fight it out, Mr. Archdeacon, fight it out."
Brandon answered:
"I have no quarrel with you, Mr. Davray. Nor have I anything to say to you."
"No quarrel? I like that. I'd knock your face in for two-pence, you blasted hypocrite. And I will too. All free ground here."
Davray's voice was shrill. He was swaying on his legs. The woman looked up from the fire and watched them.
Brandon turned his back to him and saw, facing him, Samuel Hogg and some men behind him.
"Why, good evening, Mr. Archdeacon," said Hogg, taking off his hat and bowing. "What a delightful place for a meeting!"
Brandon said quietly, "Is there anything you want with me?" He realised at once that Hogg was drunk.