you. It was not at all what you choose to suppose; it was something of
quite another kind, with which you have no concern. Be pleased to
understand once for all, Mr. Silas, that not so much as the thought of
making love to the young lady has ever entered my head. I respect her;
I admire her good qualities; but if she was the only woman left in the
world, and if I was a much younger man than I am, I should never think
of asking her to be my wife." He burst out suddenly into a harsh,
uneasy laugh. "No, no! not my style, Mr. Silas--not my style!"

Something in those words, or in his manner of speaking them, appeared
to exasperate Silas. He dropped his clumsy irony, and addressed himself
directly to John Jago in a tone of savage contempt.

"Not your style?" he repeated. "Upon my soul, that's a cool way of
putting it, for a man in your place! What do you mean by calling her
'not your style?' You impudent beggar! Naomi Colebrook is meat for your
master!"

John Jago's temper began to give way at last. He approached defiantly a
step or two nearer to Silas Meadowcroft.

"Who is my master?" he asked.

"Ambrose will show you, if you go to him," answered the other. "Naomi
is _his_ sweetheart, not mine. Keep out of his way, if you want to keep
a whole skin on your bones."

John Jago cast one of his sardonic side-looks at the farmer's wounded
left hand. "Don't forget your own skin, Mr. Silas, when you threaten
mine! I have set my mark on you once, sir. Let me by on my business, or