"Horrid man! He's a horrid man!" gasped Muriel.
"Well, of course," said Stainton, seeking to steer her into the quiescence of a judicial attitude, "he is all wrong in his conclusions——"
"He picked his teeth," said Muriel.
Jim had preserved his own good manners to the age of fifty, but his years in mining-camps had blunted his observation of the lack of nicety in others.
"Did he?" asked Jim.
"Didn't you see him? He carries a gold toothpick around with him. I believe he was proud of it. It's—that's what made me sick."
"Then," enquired Jim, growing uncomfortable, "it wasn't what he said?"
"Said? You both sat up there and quarrelled——"
"We didn't quarrel. The doctor has what seems to be the national manner, but we were merely discussing——"
"You were discussing me!" said Muriel. "I thought I should die. I don't know how I bore it; I——"