"Sir," said Mr. Roland. "Major!"
There was no doubt about it, the Major must be intoxicated. It was painful to witness in a man of his years, but what could you expect from a person of his habits of life? He began to wish he had postponed his visit to another day.
"Don't Major me! Don't attempt any of your palavering with me! I'm not a fool, sir, and I am not an idiot, sir, and that's plain, sir!"
"Major," he said--"Major Clifford, I will not tell you----"
"You will not tell me, sir! What the dickens do you mean by you will not tell me? Do you mean to insult me in my own house, sir?"
Mr. Roland was disposed to think that the insult was all on the other side, and inclined to fancy that a man who abused another before he knew either his name or errand, could be nothing but a hopeless lunatic.
"This pains me," he observed--"pains me more than I can express."
"Well, upon my life!" shouted the Major. "A fellow comes to my house with the deliberate intention of insulting me and mine, and yet he has the confounded insolence to tell me that it pains him!"
"Major," Mr. Roland was naturally beginning to feel a little warm, "you are not sober."
"Sober!" roared the Major. "Not sober! Confound it! this is too much!"