“Oh yes, I do! You’re the Lord Chancellor, aren’t you? But you might mind your manners for all that. You’re not in your dirty police-court now.” For the rest of that rubber the distinguished lawyer never opened his mouth. But next time he was worsted in debate the results were more serious. Lord Spratte, still restless after the attainment of his ambition, was seized with the desire to found a great family; and on this account wished his eldest son, who had assumed the title of Viscount Rallington, to marry a certain heiress of important connections. The lady was not unwilling, but Rallington stubbornly refused. At first, white with rage, Lord Spratte asked how he dared to cross him; and he showered upon his son that abundant vituperation of which he was the finest master in England. But without effect. The Chancellor was so astounded at this display of spirit that for once in his life he condescended to argue. His son stood firm. Then the old man burst out again with violent temper. “And who the devil are you?” he cried. “Haven’t I raised you from the gutter? What would you be without me? By God, you shall do whatever I tell you.” Rallington lost all patience. He put off the timidity with which for years he had endured so much and went up to his father. “Look here, don’t talk to me like that. I’ll marry a barmaid if I choose, and be damned to you!” The Chancellor’s hair stood on end with wrath, and he gasped for breath. His passion was such that for a minute he could not speak. Then his son, driven at length to open rebellion, poured out the hatred which had so long accumulated. He reminded him of the tyranny with which he had used his whole family, and the terror in which he had held them. He had robbed them of all freedom, so that they were slaves to his every whim. To his angry violence and to his selfishness all their happiness had been sacrificed. “You’ve been a bullying ruffian all your life, and no one has had the pluck to stand up to you. I’m sick of it, and I won’t stand it any more. D’you hear?” At last the Chancellor found words, and beset his son with a torrent of blasphemy, and with foul-mouthed abuse. “Be quiet!” said the other, standing up to him. “How dare you speak to me like that! It’s no good trying to bully me now.” “By God, I’ll knock you down.” Rallington thrust his face close to his father’s, and for a moment fear seized the old man. Here at length was some one whom he could not cow, and he hated his son. “You’d better not touch me. You can’t thrash me now as you could when I was a boy. I recommend you to take great care.” Lord Spratte raised his hands, but a trembling came suddenly upon him, so that he could not move. “Get out of my house,” he screamed. “Get out of my house.” “I’m only too glad to go.”