'And you, sir?' asked Roland inquiringly.
'Mr. Sharpe—Hawkey Sharpe, at your service.'
'The new steward?' said Roland, repressing a vehement desire to kick him along the terrace.
'If you please to call me so.'
('What the devil else does he think I should call him?' thought Roland.)
As Mr. Hawkey Sharpe neither touched nor lifted his hat Roland ignored his tardily proffered hand, which was replaced in his coat pocket.
'Had a pleasant morning journey, I hope.'
'Yes.'
'Ah, I am just going to the stables—all are well at home,' said this strange and very confident personage, passing on, while Roland stood for a moment rooted to the ground by the profound insouciance of the man; but from that moment there was a secret, if unnamed, hatred of each other in the eyes of these two—hate blended with contempt and indignation in those of Roland, who felt intuitively that the other, though, as he supposed, his underling, would yet work him a mischief if he could.
'D—n the fellow!' thought Roland. 'So this is Mr. Sharpe. I must put him to the rightabout! He ought to have ushered me in or preceded me.'