"Don’t interrupt!" roared Lord Otford. "He’s thrown over Caroline Thring—won’t hear of her." Sir Peter chuckled. "The utmost I could get out of him was that he ’d wait a week to make sure of what he calls his mind." "Aha!" said Sir Peter, delighted. "Mind! Puppy! All the week he’s gone about like a bear with a sore head! Had the impudence to refuse to speak to me! This morning he had the impudence to speak! And what d’ ye think he said?" "Serves ye right, whatever it was!" cried Sir Peter. Lord Otford didn’t hear him. "He said, ’The week ’s up, and I ’m going to Pomander Walk!’" "Good lad!" roared Sir Peter, slapping his thigh, and breaking into a loud guffaw. "What!" shouted Lord Otford, jumping up. "You’re mad! Think of what’s at stake! Ninety-thousand acres!—For the daughter of a Frenchwoman from the Lord knows where. Who was the gel’s father?—Or, rather, who was n’t?" "Jack!" roared the Admiral, in a burst of fury, jumping up in his turn and facing Otford. "I withdraw!" cried Otford. "But think of it!" He was looking at the Walk. In the grey light of the coming shower the houses were certainly not seen at their best. "Think of it!" he said with a sweep of his cane condemning the whole Walk to instant annihilation. "An Otford taking his wife from these—these—Almshouses!" The Admiral was livid—apoplectic—hysterical. Words failed him. His voice failed him. He could only gasp, "Almshouses!—Pomander Walk!—Almshouses!" Lord Otford was alarmed at the effect his words had produced. "There! there!" he cried, almost conciliatorily, "I withdraw ’Almshouses!’" "Withdraw more, sir!" said the Admiral, and for all his almost grotesque rage, there was a ring in his voice which compelled respect. "How dare you come here, abusing the sweetest, brightest, most winsome—" "I believe you ’re in love with her yourself!" cried Otford. "And, damme, why not?—Take care how you talk about innocent ladies you ’ve never set eyes on!" "That’s it!" cried Otford, glad to get on safer ground. "That’s why I ’m here. You are to present me to this Madame—whatever her confounded name is." "In your present temper?" roared Sir Peter, whose own temper was at boiling point. "I’ll walk the plank first!" He pointed to Madame’s house. "There’s her house: the white paint. Go and pay your respects." He came close up to Otford, and spoke straight into his face. "Your respects, Jack! You ’ll find you have to!" "I can’t force my way into the house, unaccompanied, and you know it!" "Then stay away, and be hanged!" Lord Otford was nonplussed. He caught sight of the Gazebo. "I ’ll stay here," he said doggedly, sitting down like a man who means never to move again, "and if Jack shows his nose—!"