“With all my heart.  Damn Warwickshire.”  And the horrid woman grinned at him as she repeated his words.  “And the leetle property, and the uncle, if you wish it; and the leetle nephew—­and the leetle nephew—­and the leetle nephew!” She stood over him as she repeated the last words with wondrous rapidity, and grinned at him, and grimaced and shook herself, till Doodles was altogether bewildered.  If this was a Russian spy he would avoid such in future, and keep himself for the milder acerbities of Newmarket, and the easier chaff of his club.  He looked up into her face at the present moment, striving to think of some words by which he might assist himself.  He had as yet performed no part of his mission, but any such performance was now entirely out of the question.  The woman had defied him, and had altogether thrown Clavering over board.  There was no further question of her services, and therefore he felt himself to be quite entitled to twit her with the payment she had taken.

“And how about my friend’s seventy pounds?” said he.

“How about seventy pounds! a leetle man comes here and tells me he is a Booddle in Warwickshire, and says he has an uncle with a very leetle property, and asks me about seventy pounds!  Suppose I ask you how about the policeman, what will you say then?”

“You send for him and you shall hear what I say.”

“No; not to take away such a leetle man as you.  I send for a policeman when I am afraid.  Booddle in Warwickshire is not a terrible man.  Suppose you go to your friend and tell him from me that he have chose a very bad Mercury in his affairs of love—­the worst Mercury I ever see.  Perhaps the Warwickshire Mercuries are not very good.  Can you tell me, Captain Booddle, how they make love down in Warwickshire?”

“And that is all the satisfaction I am to have?”

“Who said you was to have satisfaction?  Very little satisfaction I should think you ever have, when you come as a Mercury.”

“My friend means to know something about that seventy pounds.”

“Seventy pounds!  If you talk to me any more of seventy pounds, I will fly at your face.”  As she spoke this she jumped across at him as though she were really on the point of attacking him with her nails, and he, in dismay, retreated to the door.  “You, and your seventy pounds!  Oh, you English!  What mean mens you are!  Oh! a Frenchman would despise to do it.  Yes; or a Russian or a Pole.  But you—­you want it all down in black and white like a butcher’s heel.  You know nothing, and understand nothing, and can never speak, and can never hold your tongues.  You have no head, but the head of a bull.  A bull can break all the china in a shop—­dash, smash, crash—­all the pretty things gone in a minute!  So can an Englishman.  Your seventy pounds!  You will come again to me for seventy pounds, I think.”  In her energy she had acted the bull, and had exhibited her idea of the dashing, the smashing and the crashing, by the motion of her head and the waving of her hands.