"Little use to think of her," replied Ned, contemptuously. "She hasn't the spirit. I'm afraid there ain't many sisters like Mullaney's. Poor Fan wouldn't even listen—"
"Did you dare propose it to her?" said Phil. My own feelings were too strong for speech.
"Dare!" repeated Ned. "Why not? 'Twould have made her fortune—"
"Upon my word," put in Mr. Cornelius, no longer able to contain his opinions, "I never heard of such rascality!"
Something in the pedagogue's tone, I suppose, or in Ned's stage of tipsiness at the moment, gave the speech an inflammatory effect. Ned stared a moment at the speaker, in amazement. Then he said, with aroused insolence:
"What's this, Mr. Parson? What have you to say here? My sister is my sister, let me tell you—"
"If she knew you as well as I do now," retorted Cornelius, quietly, "she wouldn't boast of the relationship."
"What the devil!" cried Ned, in an elevated voice, thus drawing the attention of the four or five other people in the room. "Who is this, talks of relationships? You cursed parson-pedagogue—!"
"Be quiet, Ned," warned Philip. "Everybody hears you."
"I don't care," replied Ned, rising, and again addressing Cornelius. "Does anybody boast of relationships to you, you tow-headed bumpkin? Do you think you can call me to account, as you can the scum you preach to on the wharves? I'll teach you!"