Mr. Dawson was wiping his mouth.  “You seem to be in a great hurry,” he said; and glancing at the slip of paper in his hand added, “Mr. Newman.”

“Sir,” said Fritzing, bowing with a freezing dignity, “I am.”

“Well, so am I. Sit down.  What can I do for you?  Time’s money, you know, and I’m a busy man.  You’re German, ain’t you?”

“I am, sir.  My name is Neumann.  I am here—­”

“Oh, Noyman, is it?  I thought it was Newman.”  And he glanced again at the paper.

“Sir,” said Fritzing, with a wave of his hand, “I am here to buy a cottage, and the sooner we come to terms the better.  I will not waste valuable moments considering niceties of pronunciation.”

Mr. Dawson stared.  Then he said, “Buy a cottage?”

“Buy a cottage, sir.  I understand that practically the whole of Symford is the property of the Shuttleworth family, and that you are that family’s accredited agent.  I therefore address myself in the first instance to you.  Now, sir, if you are unable, either through disinclination or disability, to do business with me, kindly state the fact at once, and I will straightway proceed to Lady Shuttleworth herself.  I have no time to lose.”

“I’m blessed if I have either, Mr.”—­he glanced again at the paper—­“Newman.”

“Neumann, sir,” corrected Fritzing irritably.

“All right—­Noyman.  But why don’t you write it then?  You’ve written Newman as plain as a doorpost.”

“Sir, I am not here to exercise you in the proper pronunciation of foreign tongues.  These matters, of an immense elementariness I must add, should be and generally are acquired by all persons of any education in their childhood at school.”

Mr. Dawson stared.  “You’re a long-winded chap,” he said, “but I’m blessed if I know what you’re driving at.  Suppose you tell me what you’ve come for, Mr.”—­he referred as if from habit to the paper—­“Newman.”

“Neumann, sir,” said Fritzing very loud, for he was greatly irritated by Mr. Dawson’s manner and appearance.

“Noymann, then,” said Mr. Dawson, equally loudly; indeed it was almost a shout.  And he became possessed at the same instant of what was known to Fritzing as a red head, which is the graphic German way of describing the glow that accompanies wrath.  “Look here,” he said, “if you don’t say what you’ve got to say and have done with it you’d better go.  I’m not the chap for the fine-worded game, and I’m hanged if I’ll be preached to in my own house.  I’ll be hanged if I will, do you hear?” And he brought his fist down on the table in a fashion very familiar to Mrs. Dawson and the Symford cottagers.

“Sir, your manners—­” said Fritzing, rising and taking up his hat.

“Never mind my manners, Mr. Newman.”

“Neumann, sir!” roared Fritzing.

“Confound you, sir,” was Mr. Dawson’s irrelevant reply.

“Sir, confound you,” said Fritzing, clapping on his hat.  “And let me tell you that I am going at once to Lady Shuttleworth and shall recommend to her most serious consideration the extreme desirability of removing you, sir.”