In the evening Charles wandered away to Coombe Park. The owner, a yeoman named Pengelly, who, however, owned only the home farm, not the entire property, had been accustomed to the visits of Oliver Luxmore, which had been regarded as a sort of necessary nuisance. He was by no means disposed to have his place haunted by the young man also, of whose conduct he had received a bad report from all sides. He therefore treated Charles with scant courtesy, and when young Luxmore tried bluster and brag, he ordered him off the premises. Charles returned to Langford foaming with rage. Mrs. Veale awaited him. ’The master is not home,’ she said; ’where have you been?’ ’Been to see my proper home,’ he answered, ’and been threatened with the constable if I did not clear away. What do you mean by giving me all sorts of ideas and expectations, and subjecting me to insult, eh? answer me that.’ ’Don’t you fly out in flaming fury, Mr. Charles.’ ’I’m like to when treated as I have been. So would you. So will you, if what I hear is like to come about. There’s talk of a hare-hunt.’ ’A what?’ ’A hare-hunt.’ ’Where?’ Mrs. Veale stood before him growing deadlier white every moment, and quivering in all her members and in every fibre of her pale dress, in every hair of her blinking eyelids. ’Why here—at Langford.’ She caught his arm and shook him. ’You will not suffer it! You will stay it!’ ’Should they try it on, trust me,’ said Charles mockingly. ’Specially if Larry Nanspian be in it. I’ve a grudge against him must be paid off.’ Mrs. Veale passed her hand over her brow. ’To think they should dare! should dare!’ she muttered. ’But you’ll not suffer it. A hare-hunt! what do they take me for?’ Charles Luxmore uttered a short ironical laugh. ’Dear blood!’[1] she muttered, and her sharp fingers nipped and played on his arm as though she were fingering a flute. ’You’ll revenge me if they do! Trust me! when I’m deadly wronged I can hurt, and hurt I will, and when one does me good I repay it—to a hundred pounds.’ [1] A Devonshire expression, meaning ’Dear fellow.’ She laughed bitterly. There was something painful in her laugh. It was devoid of mirth, and provoked no laughter. Although she said many odd things, invented quaint similes, or used those which were traditional, they hardly ever awoke a smile, her tone was so cheerless, husky and unpleasant. ’So Farmer Pengelly insulted you! Ha! it would be a most laughable conceit to prove that he had no title, and had thrown away his thousands.’ ’On Coombe Park?’ ’On what else? What did he say to you?’ ’Never mind what he said. What he said hurt me. He called me a vagabond and empty pocket, and said I might go pack to the devil.’