“Oh, I wouldn’t hit you for worlds,” laughed Basil bitterly. “I should merely throw you downstairs.”
“I should just like to see you try it on,” cried the other, edging a little towards the door.
“Don’t be silly, James. You know you wouldn’t like it at all.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Of course not. But still—you’re not very muscular, are you?”
Rage driving away prudence, James shook his fist in Basil’s face.
“Oh, I’ll pay you out before I’ve done. I’ll pay you out.”
“James, I told you to get out five minutes ago,” said Basil, in a more peremptory fashion.
Jimmie looked at him for one moment, furious and impotent; then, without another word, flung out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Basil smiled quietly and shrugged his shoulders. He felt almost as disgusted with himself as with James, but supposed that as such scenes grew more frequent he would acquire a certain callousness. In his self-contempt he told himself that without doubt the time would come when he would be proud of his triumph in repartee over an auctioneer’s clerk. He glanced at Jenny, who sat with sewing in her hands, but without working gazed straight out of window.
“The only compensation in brother James is that he causes one a little mild amusement,” he murmured.