Stephen Ray’s cheek flamed with anger. An insult to his son was an insult to him.
“Why did he do this? How dared he?”
“Because I happened to touch him as I passed,” answered Clarence.
“He actually pulled you from your bicycle?” asked Stephen Ray, almost incredulous.
“Yes.”
“I should like to meet him. I should feel justified in ordering his arrest.”
“You will have a chance to meet him. He told me he was going to call upon you—there he is now, entering the gate.”
Stephen was glad to hear it. He wanted to empty the vails of his wrath on the audacious offender.
He was accustomed to seeing men of the stamp of this stranger quail before him and show nervous alarm at his rebukes. He had no doubt that his majestic wrath would overwhelm the shabby outcast who had audaciously assaulted his son and heir.
He rose to his feet, and stood the personification of haughty displeasure, as the poor man who dared his anger walked composedly up the path. He now stood by the piazza steps.