He felt himself now a personage, superior to the claims of trade. A vast satisfaction possessed him that he should have attained eminence, despite the unworthy nature of his profession. His vast pride could not differentiate between the notoriety he had achieved and the more notable distinction which he desired. He was spurred on-ward by his success. He wished to make his name resound. "I'll show them," he muttered arrogantly. "I'll show them what I can do."
At that moment some one came into the shop. Brodie looked up in irritation, his lordly glance daring the intruder to demand attention from the compeer of the county's nobility; but curiously, he was not asked to descend. A young man leapt lightly over the counter, mounted the steps and came into the office, shutting the door behind him. It was Denis Foyle.
Three days ago, when Denis had seen the train take Mary away from him, an avalanche of remorse had fallen upon him and had immediately swept over and engulfed him. He considered that he had acted towards Mary with a cold and cowardly selfishness. The sudden blow to his self-esteem had taken him so completely unawares, that he had, for the moment, forgotten how much he really cared for her. But he did love her; indeed, he realised more maturely, and in her absence, that he craved for her. The burden of her condition lent her, in his more complete consideration, a pathetic appeal which he had previously resisted. If his situation was unpleasant, hers was unbearable, and he had offered nothing in alleviation but a few weak and mawkish condolences. He had writhed inwardly to contemplate what she must now think of his abject and unresourceful timidity, and the realisation that he had no certain access to her to tell her all that he now experienced, to express his contrition and adoration with the utmost fervency, filled him with despair.
For two days he endured these steadily growing feelings, when, suddenly, a definite and extraordinary line of action presented itself to him. He thought it bold, strong and daring. In reality it was the reflex of the battery of self-reproaches upon his taut nerves, and although it was merely rash, presumptuous, and foolish, it represented an outlet for his constrained feelings and he saw in it the opportunity to vindicate himself in his own and in Mary's eyes.
Essentially, it was this urge to justify himself which now moved him, as he stood before Brodie, saying:
"I came in like this, Mr. Brodie, because I thought you mightn't agree to see me otherwise. I’m Denis Foyle of Darroch."
Brodie was astounded at the unexpectedness of this entry and at the audacity it betokened, but he made no sign. Instead he settled himself more deeply in his chair; his head seemed to sink right into the magnitude of his shoulders, like a rock sunk on the summit of a hill. "Son of the pub keeper?" he sneered.
"Exactly," replied Denis politely.
"Well, Mister Denis Foyle" he emphasised the mister ironically "what do you want here?" He began to hope to goad Foyle into an assault, so that he might have the pleasure of thrashing him.
Denis looked straight at Brodie and, disregarding the other's manner, proceeded according to his plan.
"You may be surprised at my visit, but I felt I must come to you, Mr. Brodie. I have not seen your daughter, Miss Mary Brodie, for over three months. She has consistently avoided me. I wish to tell you frankly that I have an attachment for your daughter and have come to ask your permission to allow me to see her."
Brodie gazed upwards at the young man with a heavy masklike face which showed nothing of the tide of rising amazed anger he felt at the other's demand. After a moment's lowering stare at Foyle he said, slowly, "I am glad to hear from your own lips I have been obeyed! My daughter has refused to see you because I forbade her to look at ye! Do you hear me? I forbade her, and now that I've seen
what ye are I still forbid her."
"Why, Mr. Brodie, may I ask?"
"Must I explain my actions to you? The fact that I order it is enough for my daughter. I do not explain to her; I command."
"Mr. Brodie, I should be glad to know your objection to me. I should do my best to meet you in any way you desired." With all his power Foyle tried to propitiate the other. "I'm very anxious to please you! Let me know what to do and I'll do it."
Brodie leered at him:
"I want ve to take your smooth face out o’ my office and never show it in Levenford again; and the quicker ye do't the better yell please me."
With a deprecating smile Foyle replied:
"Then it's only my face you object to, Mr. Brodie." He felt he must win the other around somehow!
Brodie was beginning to become enraged; the fact that he could not beat down this young sprig's eyes, nor yet provoke him to temper, annoyed him. With an effort he controlled himself and said sneeringly:
"I'm not in the habit of exchanging confidences with your kind, but as I have a moment to spare, I will tell you what I object to. Mary Brodie is a lady; she has blood in her veins of which a duchess might be proud, and she is my daughter. You are a low-down Irish scum, a nothing out of nothing. Your father sells cheap drink and I've no doubt your forbears ate potato peelings out o' the pot." Denis still met his eyes unflinchingly, although the insults quivered inside him.
Desperately he forced himself to be calm. "The fact that I am Irish surely does not condemn me," he replied in a level voice. "I don't drink not a drop. In fact, I'm in a totally different line of business, one which I feel will one day bring a great return."
"I've heard about your business, my pretty tatie-picker. Long trips over the countryside, then back to loaf about for days. I know your kind. If ye think that you can make money by hawkin' tea around Scotland then you're stupid, and if ye think ye can make up for your rotten family by takin' up a trashy job like that, then you're mad."
"I wish you would let me explain to you, Mr. Brodie."
Brodie contemplated him savagely.
"Explain to me! You talk like that to me, you damned commercial traveller. Do you know who you're speakin' to? Look!" he roared, flourishing the paper and thrusting it in front of the other. "See this, if you can read! These are the people I associate with " He inflated his chest and shouted, "I would as soon think of letting my daughter consort with you as I would let her mix with swine."
With a considerable effort Foyle controlled his temper.
"Mr. Brodie," he pleaded. "I wish you would listen to me. Surely you must admit that a man is what he makes himself that he himself controls his own destiny, irrespective of what his parents may be. I am not ashamed of my ancestry, but if that it what you object to, surely it does not damn me."
Brodie looked at the other frowningly.
"Ye dare to talk that damned new-fangled socialism to me!" he roared angrily. "One man is as good as another, I suppose! What are we comin' to next. You fool! I'll have none of ye. Get out!"
Denis did not move. He saw clearly that this man was not amenable to reason; that he might batter his head against a stone wall with more avail; he saw that, with such a father, Mary's life must be a procession of terrifying catastrophes. But, because of her, he determined to maintain his control, and, quite quietly, he said, "I am sorry for you, Mr. Brodie. You belong to an age that is passing; you do not understand progress. And you don't understand what it is to make friends; you must only make enemies. It is not I who am mad!"