“I never gave you their address; we were only talking about old Heythorp.”
And at the smile which spread between Mr. Ventnor's whiskers, he jumped up, crying:
“It's not the thing, and you're not going to put me off. I insist on an explanation.”
Mr. Ventnor leaned back, crossing his stout legs, joining the tips of his thick fingers. In this attitude he was always self-possessed.
“You do—do you?”
“Yes. You must have had some reason.”
Mr. Ventnor gazed up at him.
“I'll give you a piece of advice, young cock, and charge you nothing for it, too: Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies. And here's another: Go away before you forget yourself again.”
The natural stolidity of Bob Pilings face was only just proof against this speech. He said thickly:
“If you go there again and use my name, I'll Well, it's lucky for you you're not my age. Anyway I'll relieve you of my acquaintanceship in future. Good-evening!” and he went to the door. Mr. Ventnor had risen.