Zita had been accustomed to face men of every description. Her father had stood between her and coarse insult, but she had been obliged to confront men rude, boisterous, and disposed to take advantage of her weakness, and had acquired readiness in dealing with them, and nerve not to show timidity.
When she had seen the cringe and cower of those whom Drownlands had threatened, she tossed her chestnut gold head in a manner expressive of impatience.
Drownlands had noticed this, and Zita had seen in his darkening brow that he had observed, was surprised and offended at the contemptuous action. The moment was not far off when he would test his strength against hers.
'The sooner the better,' said Zita to herself; and, instead of avoiding him, she went across the yard to meet him as he rode up the drove. She took his horse by the bridle and said, 'I will lead him to the stable; the men are at chapel or the beerhouse, and the boy is with the cows.'
'You won't curry favour by doing this,' said Drownlands.
'Curry favour? I curry nothing. Currycomb your horse yourself!'
'I want a word with you, Cheap Jack.'
'And I with you, Fen-tiger—we must settle terms.'
'Terms? What terms?'
'The price of my lodging.'