“I mean no harm of your wife,” the terrible landlady answered; something—perhaps this roasting of her husband on his own hearth—had roused her beyond the ordinary. “None, my gentleman, and I know none. But if you want no harm said of her, show yourself a bit less at Hinkson’s. And a bit less in my house. And a bit more in your own! And the harm will be less likely to happen!”
“I’ll never cross your doorstep again!” Tyson roared.
He neither cared nor saw who it was whom he had jostled
And stumbling to his feet he cast off one or two who in their well meaning would have stayed him. He made for the door. But he was not to escape without further collision. On the threshold he ran plump against a person who was entering, cursed the newcomer heartily, and without a look pushed violently by him and was gone.
He neither cared nor saw who it was whom he had jostled. But the company saw, and some rose to their feet in consternation, while others, carried their hands to their heads. There was an involuntary movement of respect which the new comer acknowledged by touching his hat. He had the air of one who knew how to behave to his inferiors; but the air, also, of one who never forgot that they were his inferiors.
“Your friend seems in a hurry,” he said. His face was not a face that easily betrayed emotion, but he looked tired.
“Beg your honour’s pardon, I am sure,” Gilson answered. “Something’s put him out, and he did not see you, sir.”
Mrs. Gilson muttered that a pig could have seen. But her words were lost in the respectful murmur which made the company sharers in the landlord’s apology.