He did not move.
"Come out, you--," said Dawes.
"That's enough, Dawes," cried the barmaid.
"Come on," said the "chucker-out", with kindly insistence, "you'd better be getting on." And, by making Dawes edge away from his own close proximity, he worked him to the door.
"THAT'S the little sod as started it!" cried Dawes, half-cowed, pointing to Paul Morel.
"Why, what a story, Mr.Dawes!" said the barmaid.

"You know it was you all the time." Still the "chucker-out" kept thrusting his chest forward at him, still he kept edging back, until he was in the doorway and on the steps outside; then he turned round.
"All right," he said, nodding straight at his rival.
Paul had a curious sensation of pity, almost of affection, mingled with violent hate, for the man.

The coloured door swung to; there was silence in the bar.
"Serve, him, jolly well right!" said the barmaid.
"But it's a nasty thing to get a glass of beer in your eyes," said the mutual friend.
"I tell you I was glad he did," said the barmaid.

"Will you have another, Mr.Morel ?" She held up Paul's glass questioningly.

He nodded.
"He's a man as doesn't care for anything, is Baxter Dawes," said one.
"Pooh! is he ?" said the barmaid.