Mr. Bunker glared at him, but answered not; never, within his present experience, had he found himself at a loss to give indignation words. On occasion, he had been known to swear "into shudders" the immortal gods who heard him. To swear at this nephew, however, this careless, sniggering youth, who looked and talked like a "swell," would, he felt, be more than useless. The boy would only snigger more. He would have liked knocking him down, but there were obvious reasons why this was not to be seriously contemplated.
He turned to the girl who had come with him.
"Rebekah," he said with condescension, "you may speak up; I told your father I would stand by you, and I will."
"Do not, at least," said Angela, in her stateliest manner, "begin by making Miss Hermitage suppose she will want your support."
She saw before her a girl about two- or three-and-twenty years of age. She was short of stature and sturdy. Her complexion was dark, with black hair and dark eyes, and these were bright. A firm mouth and square chin gave her a pugnacious appearance. In fact, she had been fighting all her life, more desperately even than the other girls about her, because she was heavily handicapped by the awkwardness of her religion.
"Mr. Bunker," said this young person, who certainly did not look as if she wanted any backing up, "tells me you want a forewoman."
"You want a forewoman," echoed the agent, as if interpreting for her.
"Yes, I do," Angela replied. "I know, to begin with, all about your religious opinions."
"She knows," said the agent, standing between the two parties, as if retained for the interests of both—"she knows, already, your religious opinions."
"Very well, miss." Rebekah looked disappointed at losing a chance of expounding them. "Then, I can only say, I can never give way in the matter of truth."