He followed her mechanically.
"Would your worship be private? We keep a parlor for gentles."
"Ay, let me be alone," he groaned.
Mercy Vint, the daughter, happened to be on the stairs and heard him: the voice startled her, and she turned round directly to look at the speaker; but she only saw his back going into the room, and then he flung himself like a sack into the arm-chair.
The landlady invited him to order supper: he declined. She pressed him. He flung a piece of money on the table, and told her savagely to score his supper, and leave him in peace.
She flounced out with a red face, and complained to her husband in the kitchen.
Harry Vint rung the crown-piece on the table before he committed himself to a reply. It rang like a bell. "Churl or not, his coin is good," said Harry Vint, philosophically. "I'll eat his supper, dame, for that matter."
"Father," whispered Mercy, "I do think the gentleman is in trouble."
"And that is no business of mine, neither," said Harry Vint.
Presently the guest they were discussing called loudly for a quart of burnt wine.