"It is not in his power or yours to alter my decision."
Mr. Lamotte turned to his wife.
"You must talk with that girl," he said, savagely, "what the devil ails you all?"
Mrs. Lamotte arose and faced him.
"I should be wasting my breath," she replied, looking him straight in the eye. "You have tried that girl a little too far, Mr. Lamotte," and she followed after her daughter.
A roar, not unlike the bellow of a bull, recalled Mr. Lamotte to the business of the moment. John Burrill, having recovered from his momentary stupor of astonishment, was dancing an improvised, and unsteady can can, among the chairs and tables, beating the air with his huge fists, and howling with rage.
Seeing this, Mr. Lamotte did first, a very natural thing; he uttered a string of oaths, "not loud, but deep," and next, a very sensible thing; he rang for brandy and hot water.
And now the battle is in Mr. Lamotte's hands, why need we linger. Brandy hot will always conquer a John Burrill.