“Nonsense!” he said, going to a side-table to pour out whisky from a demijohn he took from under it.
“Oh, William! for pity's sake! don't drink more,” she begged. “It will make you crazy, I am sure.”
“Anybody might suppose I have drank a river, to hear the old hag talk like that,” he snarled.
“You have not said good evening to Mr. Darrell.”
“You don't give me a chance, with your infernal chatter. Mr. Darrell knows he is welcome,” he said, without looking at him.
“Where is your rifle, William?” she asked.
With an oath he turned and glared at her, with distorted features.
“It is none of your business where it is. Have I to give you an account of everything?”
“I thought you might have loaned it to somebody, for we heard it fired a little while ago.”
“Is there no rifle but mine in this valley?”