Then, Drummle glanced at me, with an insolent triumph on his great-jowled face that cut me to the heart, dull as he was, and so exasperated me, that I felt inclined to take him in my arms (as the robber in the story-book is said to have taken the old lady) and seat him on the fire.
One thing was manifest to both of us, and that was, that until relief came, neither of us could relinquish the fire. There we stood, well squared up before it, shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot, with our hands behind us, not budging an inch. The horse was visible outside in the drizzle at the door, my breakfast was put on table, Drummle' s was cleared away, the waiter invited me to begin, I nodded, we both stood our ground.
"Have you been to the Grove since?" said Drummle.
"No," said I, "I had quite enough of the Finches the last time I was there."
"Was that when we had the difference of opinion?"
"Yes," I replied, very shortly.
"Come, come! they let you off easily enough," sneered Drummle. "You shouldn't have lost your temper."
"Mr. Drummle," said I, "you are not competent to give advice on that subject. When I lose my temper (not that I admit having done so on that occasion), I don't throw glasses."
"I do," said Drummle.
After glancing at him once or twice, in an increased state of smouldering ferocity, I said:
"Mr. Drummle, I did not seek this conversation, and I don't think it's an agreeable one."
"I am sure it's not," said he, superciliously over his shoulder, "I don't think anything about it."
"And therefore," I went on, "with your leave, I will suggest that we hold no kind of communication in future."
"Quite my opinion," said Drummle, "and what I should have suggested myself, or done—more likely—without suggesting. But don't lose your temper. Haven't you lost enough without that?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Waiter," said Drummle, by way of answering me.
