“Now look here!” said Mrs. Wylder. “You're not afraid of me, and I'm not afraid of you!--It's a low trade, is yours.” “What is my trade?” “What is your trade?--Why, to talk goody! and read goody! and pray goody! and be goody, goody!--Ugh!” “I'm not doing much of that sort at this moment, any way!” rejoined Wingfold with a laugh. “You know this is not the place for it!” “Would you mind telling me which is the place to read a French novel in?” “Church: there!” “What would you do if I were to insist on reading a chapter of the Bible here?” “Look!” she answered, and rising, snatched a saloon-pistol from the chimney-piece, and took deliberate aim at him. Wingfold looked straight down the throat of the thick barrel, and did not budge. “--I would shoot you with that,” she went on, holding the weapon as I have said. “It would kill you, for I can shoot, and should hit you in the eye, not on the head. I shouldn't mind being hanged for it. Nothing matters now!” She flung the heavy weapon from her, gave a great cry, not like an hysterical woman, but an enraged animal, stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth, pulled it out again, and began tearing at it with her teeth. The pistol fell in the middle of the room. Wingfold went and picked it up. “I should deserve it if I did,” he said quietly, as he laid the pistol on the table. “--But you don't fight fair, Mrs. Wylder; for you know I can't take a pistol with me into the pulpit and shoot you. It is cowardly of you to take advantage of that.” “Well! I like the assurance of you! Do I read so as to annoy any one?” “Yes, you do. You daren't read aloud, because you would be put out of the church if you did; but you annoy as many of the congregation as can see you, and you annoy me. Why should you behave in that house as if it were your own, and yet shoot me if I behaved so in yours? Is it fair? Is it polite? Is it acting like a lady?” “It _is_ my house--at least it is my pew, and I will do in it what I please.--Look here, Mr. Wingfold: I don't want to lose my temper with you, but I tell you that pew is mine, as much as the chair you're not ashamed to sit upon at this moment! And let me tell you, after the way _I_'ve been treated, my behaviour don't splash much. When he's brought a woman to my pass, I don't see God Almighty can complain of her manners!” “Well, thinking of him as you do, I don't wonder you are rude!” “What! You won't curry favour with him?--You hold by fair play? Come now! I call that downright pluck!” “I fear you mistake me a little.” “Of course I do! I might have known that! When you think a parson begins to speak like a man, you may be sure you mistake him!” “You wouldn't behave to a friend of your own according to what another person thought of him, would you?” “No, by Jove, I wouldn't!” “Then you won't expect me to do so!” “I should think not! Of course you stick by the church!”