But his peace, if for a moment he had found it, was soon interrupted. A
voice that he knew came across to him from the other side of the fire.
"Why, Archdeacon, who would have thought to find you here?"
He looked up and saw, through the fire, the face of Davray the painter.
He turned to go, and at once Davray was at his side.
"No. Don't go. You're in my country now, Archdeacon, not your own. You're
not cock of _this_ walk, you know. Last time we met you thought you
owned the place. Well, you can't think you own this. Fight it out, Mr.
Archdeacon, fight it out."
Brandon answered:
"I have no quarrel with you, Mr. Davray. Nor have I anything to say to
you."
"No quarrel? I like that. I'd knock your face in for two-pence, you
blasted hypocrite. And I will too. All free ground here."
Davray's voice was shrill. He was swaying on his legs. The woman looked up
from the fire and watched them.
Brandon turned his back to him and saw, facing him, Samuel Hogg and some
men behind him.
"Why, good evening, Mr. Archdeacon," said Hogg, taking off his hat and
bowing.
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