There was something in Jack Elliot's well-bred and steady stare, as he focussed him with his eye-glass, that expressed vague wonder, insouciance, and no small contempt; it enraged Hawkey Sharpe and made his whole heart seem to burn in his breast with hate and suppressed passion, while fixing his own eyeglass defiantly and attempting suavely to say:
'Good-morning, Captain Lindsay—good-morning, gentlemen, all.'
Roland could scarcely master his passion or the impulse to club his fowling-piece and knock the fellow down.
'Mr. Sharpe,' said he in a low voice that seemed all unlike his own, so low and husky was it, as he beckoned Hawkey aside, 'considering the rudeness of which I understand you were guilty last night, I wonder that you have the bad taste to address me at all, or thrust yourself upon our society.'
'Thrust—Captain Lindsay!' exclaimed Sharpe, in turn suppressing his rage.
'Yes—I repeat that considering there was something—I scarcely know what—amounting to a fracas between my friend Captain Elliot and you, I also wonder—nathless your relative and assumed position in this house—that you venture to join my party this morning.'
It was the first time that Roland had spoken so plainly to this obnoxious personage.
'I don't quite understand all your words imply,' replied the latter with an assumption of dignity and would-be hauteur that sat grotesquely upon him. 'I am in the house of my sister, Mrs. Lindsay of Earlshaugh, who has accorded me permission to shoot, and shoot I shall whether you like it or not!'
'For the last time, I trust,' muttered Roland under his moustache.
'That we shall see,' was the mocking remark of Hawkey, who overheard him.