Anthony was in too quarrelsome a mood to remain silent long. He began the skirmish by demanding what Herbert meant by absenting himself from the office for the afternoon, and where he had been to. His resentful tones, his authoritative words, were not calculated to win a very civil answer.
They did not win one from Herbert. His tones were resentful, too; his words were coolly aggravating. Anthony was not his master; when he was, he might, perhaps, answer him. Such was their purport.
A hot interchange of words ensued. Nothing more. Anthony remained at the table; Herbert, half in, half out of the window, leaned against its frame. When Joseph returned to put things in readiness for Herbert's dinner, they had subsided into quietness. It was only a lull in the storm.
Joseph placed the dessert nearer Anthony's end of the table, and laid the cloth across the other end. Herbert came into the room. "What a time you are with dinner, Joseph!" cried he. "One would think it was being cooked over again."
"Cook's warming it, sir."
"Warming it!" echoed Herbert. "Why couldn't she keep it warm? She might be sure I should be home to dinner."
"She was keeping it warm, sir; but Mr. Anthony ordered it to be put away."
Now, the man had really no intention of making mischief when he said this: that it might cause ill-feeling between the brothers never crossed his mind. He was only anxious that he and the cook should stand free from blame; for the young Dares, when displeased with the servants, were not in the habit of sparing them. Herbert turned to Anthony.
"What business have you to interfere with my dinner? Or with anything else that concerns me?"
"I choose to make it my business," insolently retorted Anthony.