“I am Mr. Ovington’s son, Clement Ovington, sir.”
All the Squire’s civility left him. “The devil you are!” he exclaimed. “Well, I’m going to the bank. I like to do my business across the counter, young sir, to be plain, and not in the road.”
“But this is business—of a different sort, sir,” Clement stammered, painfully aware of the change in the other’s tone, as well as of the servant, who was all a-grin behind his master’s shoulder. “If I could have a word with you—apart, sir? Or perhaps—if I called at Garth tomorrow?”
“Why?”
“It is upon private business, Mr. Griffin,” Clement replied, his face burning.
“Did your father send you?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t see,” the Squire replied, scowling at him from under his bushy eyebrows, “what business you can have with me. There can be none, young man, that can’t be done across the counter. It is only upon business that I know your father, and I don’t know you at all. I don’t know why you stopped me.”
Clement was scarlet with mortification. “If I could see you a few minutes—alone, sir, I think I could explain what it is.”
“You will see me at the bank in an hour,” the old man retorted. “Anything you have to say you can say there. As it is, I am going to close my account with your father, and after that the less I hear your name the better I shall be pleased. At present you’re wasting my time. I don’t know why you stopped me. Good morning.” And in a lower tone, but one that was perfectly audible to Clement, “D—d young counterskipper,” he muttered, as he started the horses. “Business with me, indeed! Confound his impudence!”