"I do not know what it was about," said the father, "more than that I had heard you had been squabbling in an alehouse about some girl."
"The insult or impertinence was levelled at me," said Anthony, controlling himself; "I did not mean to injure Fox, on that you may rely. I struck him over the face because he had whipped me into anger which I could not contain. I am sorry if I have hurt his eye. I am not sorry for having struck him, he brought it on himself."
"It is not creditable," pursued old Cleverdon, "that your name should be brought into men's mouths about a vulgar brawl over some village drab or house wench."
The blood surged into Anthony's face, he laid down his knife and looked steadily across the table at his father.
"On that score," said he, "you may set your mind at rest. There has been no brawl over any village wench."
"I can quite understand," said the father, "that Fox Crymes was jealous and did not measure words. He can pepper and spice his speeches till they burn as cantharides. What is he beside you? If you cast a fancy here or there, and there be naught serious in it, and it interferes with his sport, he must bear it. But, Tony, it is high time you was married. We must have no more of these wrangles. Whose name came up between you? Was it his sister's? I can well understand he does not relish her marriage. There has ever been rough water between them. She has the property—and when old Justice Crymes dies—where will he be? Was that the occasion of the dispute?"
"No, father, it was not."
"Then it was not about Julian?"
"About Julian? Certainly not."
"Nor about some village girl?"