My grandfather drew in a long breath, and, folding his arms, looked at me from head to foot.
"So you are not an hour here, and you already want to be off," he said.
"But since you don't want me—" I remonstrated.
"I beg your pardon—I do want you," he replied, with ironical politeness; "and the proof I do want you, is, that I have taken the trouble of procuring you, and that I mean to keep you."
He spoke as if I were a piece of furniture. I felt very indignant, and reddening, asked:
"May I know, Sir, what you want me for?"
"No," was the laconic and decisive reply.
"Am I to stay here whether I like or not?"
"Precisely."
"I shall appeal to Mr. O'Reilly," I exclaimed indignantly.