“But it went in all right?”
“Yes, all right.”
George Aspel sat for some moments in gloomy silence. He now felt convinced of that which at first he had only suspected—namely, that his intending patron was offended because he had not at once called in person to thank him, instead of doing so by letter. Probably, also, he had been hurt by the expressions in the letter to which Philip Maylands had objected when it was read to him.
“Well, well,” he exclaimed, suddenly giving a severe slap to his unoffending thigh, “I’ll have nothing to do with him. If he’s so touchy—as that comes to, the less that he and I have to say to each other the better.”
“Oh! please, sir, hush!” exclaimed Tottie, pointing with a look of alarm to a bundle which lay in a dark corner, “you’ll wake ’im.”
“Wake who?”
“Father,” whispered the child.
The visitor rose, took up the pint-bottle, and by the aid of its flaring candle beheld something that resembled a large man huddled together in a heap on a straw mattress, as he had last fallen down. His position, together with his torn and disarranged garments, had destroyed all semblance to human form save where a great limb protruded. His visage was terribly disfigured by the effects of drink, besides being partly concealed by his matted hair.
“What a wretched spectacle!” exclaimed the young man, touching the heap with his foot as he turned away in disgust.
Just then a woman with a black eye entered the room with a black bottle in her hand. She was the woman who had refused the beer from Aspel.