"H-what is this, Howell Gruffydd?" Dafydd demanded without preface, his eyes burningly and truculently on the Chairman's face. He wore his everyday corduroys, but his air was that of a monarch in banishment. Howell turned.
"Ah, how are you, Dafydd? Indeed you look well! They do say the smell of road-tar is a very healthy smell——"
"H-what is this we hear, Howell Gruffydd?" Dafydd repeated.
Howell tried to smile.—"Indeed, how can I answer a question like that, 'What is this we hear?'——"
"H-what is this about Delyn and the Water?"
There was a dangerous quickness in Dafydd's voice. Involuntarily Howell gave a little hiccough of emotion, which answered Dafydd sufficiently. His eyes were like the windows of a burning house.
"He sell us two thousand acres, of our own land, for how mut-ss?"
"Two—hundred—thou-sand—pounds," sobbed Howell.
"Of our own mountains—Delyn, that belong to us—he sell us Delyn, this Saxon?——"
"Indeed, indeed, Dafydd, do not excite yourself—it will have to go to arbi-tra-tion——"