“Removing me!  Where the deuce to?”

“Sir, I care not whither so long as it is hence,” cried Fritzing, passionately striding to the door.

Mr. Dawson lay back in his chair and gasped.  The man was plainly mad; but still Lady Shuttleworth might—­you never know with women—­“Look here—­hie, you!  Mr. Newman!” he called, for Fritzing had torn open the door and was through it.

“Neumann, sir,” Fritzing hurled back at him over his shoulder.

“Lady Shuttleworth won’t see you, Mr. Noyman.  She won’t on principle.”

Fritzing wavered.

“Everything goes through my hands.  You’ll only have your walk for nothing.  Come back and tell me what it is you want.”

“Sir, I will only negotiate with you,” said Fritzing down the passage—­and Mrs. Dawson hearing him from the drawing-room folded her hands in fear and wonder—­“if you will undertake at least to imitate the manners of a gentleman.”

“Come, come, you musn’t misunderstand me,” said Mr. Dawson getting up and going to the door.  “I’m a plain man, you know—­”

“Then, sir, all I can say is that I object to plain men.”

“I say, who are you?  One would think you were a duke or somebody, you’re so peppery.  Dressed up”—­Mr. Dawson glanced at the suit of pedagogic black into which Fritzing had once more relapsed—­“dressed up as a street preacher.”

“I am not dressed up as anything, sir,” said Fritzing coming in rather hurriedly.  “I am a retired teacher of the German tongue, and have come down from London in search of a cottage in which to spend my remaining years.  That cottage I have now found here in your village, and I have come to inquire its price.  I wish to buy it as quickly as possible.”

“That’s all very well, Mr.—­oh all right, all right, I won’t say it.  But why on earth don’t you write it properly, then?  It’s this paper’s set me wrong.  I was going to say we’ve got no cottages here for sale.  And look here, if that’s all you are, a retired teacher, I’ll trouble you not to get schoolmastering me again.”

“I really think, sir,” said Fritzing stretching his hand towards his hat, “that it is better I should try to obtain an interview with Lady Shuttleworth, for I fear you are constitutionally incapable of carrying on a business conversation with the requisite decent self-command.”

“Pooh—­you’ll get nothing out of her.  She’ll send you back to me.  Why, you’d drive her mad in five minutes with that tongue of yours.  If you want anything I’m your man.  Only let’s get at what you do want, without all these confounded dictionary words.  Which cottage is it?”

“It is the small cottage,” said Fritzing mastering his anger, “adjoining the churchyard.  It stands by itself, and is separated from the road by an extremely miniature garden.  It is entirely covered by creeping plants which I believe to be roses.”

“That’s a couple.”