“Of course you’ll say so,” replied Fledgeby, sharpening, the moment his interest was touched by another. “But you know, the real lookout is this:—what I say, not what you say. I say having my late governor and my late mother in my eye—that Georgiana don’t seem to be of the pitching-in order.”
The respected Mr. Lammle was a bully, by nature and by usual practice. Perceiving, as Fledgeby’s affronts cumulated, that conciliation by no means answered the purpose here, he now directed a scowling look into Fledgeby’s small eyes for the effect of the opposite treatment. Satisfied by what he saw there, he burst into a violent passion and struck his hand upon the table, making the china ring and dance.
“You are a very offensive fellow, sir,” cried Mr. Lammle, rising. “You are a highly offensive scoundrel. What do you mean by this behaviour?”
“I say!” remonstrated Fledgeby. “Don’t break out.”
“You are a very offensive fellow sir,” repeated Mr. Lammle. “You are a highly offensive scoundrel!”
“I say , you know!” urged Fledgeby, quailing.
“Why, you coarse and vulgar vagabond!” said Mr. Lammle, looking fiercely about him, “if your servant was here to give me sixpence of your money to get my boots cleaned afterwards—for you are not worth the expenditure—I’d kick you.”
“No you wouldn’t,” pleaded Fledgeby. “I am sure you’d think better of it.”
“I tell you what, Mr. Fledgeby,” said Lammle advancing on him. “Since you presume to contradict me, I’ll assert myself a little. Give me your nose!”