That's what I want to see, Mr.Invincible Rudyard Byng." The reply to this tirade was deliberate and murderously bitter.

"That's what you want to see, is it, Mr.Blasphemous Barry Whalen?
Well, you can want it with a little less blither and a little more manners." A hard and ugly look was now come into the big clean-shaven face which had become sleeker with good living, and yet had indefinably coarsened in the three years gone since the Jameson raid; and a gloomy anger looked out of the deep-blue eyes as he slowly went on: "It doesn't matter what you want--not a great deal, if the others agree generally on what ought to be done; and I don't know that it matters much in any case.

What have you come to see me about ?" "I know I'm not welcome here, Byng.

It isn't the same as it used to be.
It isn't--" Byng jerked quickly to his feet and lunged forward as though he would do his visitor violence; but he got hold of himself in time, and, with a sudden and whimsical toss of the head, characteristic of him, he burst into a laugh.
"Well, I've been stung by a good many kinds of flies in my time, and I oughtn't to mind, I suppose," he growled....

"Oh, well, there," he broke off; "you say you're not welcome here?
If you really feel that, you'd better try to see me at my chambers--or at the office in London Wall.