“Bless the child!” cried Louisa, “why, you was important when you was Sir Antony. Now you’re of no more account than a beggar boy.”
Antony flushed. Resentment rose hot within his soul.
“I aren’t a beggar boy,” he announced with dignity.
“Precious like one,” muttered Louisa, rummaging in a drawer.
Antony planted himself squarely in front of her.
“Louisa, I aren’t a beggar boy. Say I aren’t a beggar boy.”
Now at that precise moment Louisa ran a pin into her finger. It must be confessed that it was a painful prick.
“You are a beggar boy,” she retorted, her finger to her mouth. “Nothing but a beggar boy.” The tone of the concluding words verged on the malicious. Then she bounced out of the room to seek elsewhere for what she had lost.
Antony walked over to the window.
His face was flushed, and his eyes were troubled; indeed there was a suspicion of moisture about them. He felt a distinct uneasiness at the statement. The only modicum of comfort lay in the fact that it had certainly been prompted by ill-temper. Yet even that fact brought but small assurance with it. Two or three experiences had shown him that crossness occasionally urged truth to the fore, when kindness would shield you from its unpleasantness.