Every man has his illusions, and no man likes them disturbed. The gingery tint underlying Mr. Ventnor's colouring overlaid it; even the whites of his eyes grew red.
“Oh!” he said; “indeed! You mind your own business, will you?”
“It is my business—very much so. You made use of my name, and I don't choose—-”
“The devil you don't! Now, I tell you what—-”
Mr. Ventnor leaned forward—“you'd better hold your tongue, and not exasperate me. I'm a good-tempered man, but I won't stand your impudence.”
Clenching his bowler hat, and only kept in his seat by that sense of something behind, Bob Pillin ejaculated:
“Impudence! That's good—after what you did! Look here, why did you? It's so extraordinary!”
Mr. Ventnor answered:
“Oh! is it? You wait a bit, my friend!”
Still more moved by the mystery of this affair, Bob Pillin could only mutter: