from such a compression. The young man’s face went white at the nostrils, and his eyes took on that bright abstract look of pure democratic anger. He pushed the fat shoulders more decisively, repeating:
“Go away! Go away! You’re not to sit there.”
The Mexican, on his own ground, and heavy on his own base, let himself be shoved, oblivious.
“Insolence!” said Kate loudly. “Insolence!”
She glared at the fat back in the shoddily-fitting black coat, which looked as if a woman dressmaker had made it, with loathing. How could any man’s coat-collar look so home-made, so en famille!
Villiers remained with a fixed, abstract look on his thin face, rather like a death’s head. All his American will was summoned up, the bald eagle of the north bristling in every feather. The fellow should not sit there.—But how to