then, suddenly changing his manner, he approached me with a sort of bow,
and made some remark on the weather.

Meanwhile, Glanville had sunk on the sofa, exhausted, less by his late
effort than the convulsive passion which had produced it. He rose in a
few moments, and said to Thornton, "Pardon my violence; let this pay your
bruises;" and he placed a long and apparently well filled purse in
Thornton's hand. That veritable philosophe took it with the same air as a
dog receives the first caress from the hand which has just chastised him;
and feeling the purse between his short, hard fingers, as if to ascertain
the soundness of its condition, quietly slid it into his breeches pocket,
which he then buttoned with care, and pulling his waistcoat down, as if
for further protection to the deposit, he turned towards Glanville, and
said, in his usual quaint style of vulgarity--"Least said, Sir Reginald,
the soonest mended. Gold is a good plaister for bad bruises. Now, then,
your will:--ask and I will answer, unless you think Mr. Pelham un de
trop."

I was already at the door, with the intention of leaving the room, when
Glanville cried, "Stay, Pelham, I have but one question to ask Mr.
Thornton. Is John Tyrrell still living?"

"He is!" answered Thornton, with a sardonic smile.

"And beyond all want!" resumed Glanville.

"He is!" was the tautological reply.

"Mr. Thornton," said Glanville, with a calm voice, "I have now done with
you--you may leave the room!"