'I'm like to when treated as I have been. So would you. So will you, if what I hear is like to come about. There's talk of a hare-hunt.'
'A what?'
'A hare-hunt.'
'Where?' Mrs. Veale stood before him growing deadlier white every moment, and quivering in all her members and in every fibre of her pale dress, in every hair of her blinking eyelids.
'Why here—at Langford.'
She caught his arm and shook him. 'You will not suffer it! You will stay it!'
'Should they try it on, trust me,' said Charles mockingly. 'Specially if Larry Nanspian be in it. I've a grudge against him must be paid off.'
Mrs. Veale passed her hand over her brow. 'To think they should dare! should dare!' she muttered. 'But you'll not suffer it. A hare-hunt! what do they take me for?'
Charles Luxmore uttered a short ironical laugh. 'Dear blood!'[1] she muttered, and her sharp fingers nipped and played on his arm as though she were fingering a flute. 'You'll revenge me if they do! Trust me! when I'm deadly wronged I can hurt, and hurt I will, and when one does me good I repay it—to a hundred pounds.'
[1] A Devonshire expression, meaning 'Dear fellow.'