‘You’re too fat for business,’ said his uncle. ‘I feared so. Give me a lean and hungry man for spirit. Cæsar knew Cassius, and I know you.’
I guessed it was Mr. Potter who thumped the table.
‘Give me some time and you’ll see,’ he said. ‘But in proportion as she troubles me on this side so I’ll give it her on t’other. Only let me get her, and for all your sneers at my figure I’ll have her on her knees to you and me within a month. Will you bet?’ and I heard him pound the table again.
He had used a word in this speech which I will not repeat—an odious, infamous word. I stepped in, flinging the door wide open and leaving it so. Mr. Potter started up from his chair, my stepfather lay back, his face drooped and very pale, and he looked at me under his half-closed lids. I stared Mr. Potter in the face for a few moments without speaking; I then pointed to the door with the silver-headed cane I invariably carried.
‘Walk out, sir,’ said I.
He began to stammer.
‘Walk out!’ I repeated, and I menaced him.
‘Where am I to walk to?’ he said.
‘Out of this house,’ said I.
‘You had no right to listen, miss,’ said my stepfather.