I think he was, for Francis Nicholson's moods were as mutable as the tides.

In every word of his there lurked some sour irony.
The company took the speech for satire, and many laughed.

One young gentleman, who wore a purple coat and a splendid brocaded vest, laughed very loud.
"A merchant's nerves are delicate things," he said, as he fingered his cravat.

"I would have said 'like a woman's,' had I not seen this very day Miss Elspeth's horsemanship." And he bowed to her very neatly.
Now I was never fond of being quizzed, and in that company I could not endure it.
"We have a saying, sir," I said, "that the farmyard fowl does not fear the eagle.

The men who look grave just now are not those who live snugly in coast manors, but the outland folk who have to keep their doors with their own hands." It was a rude speech, and my hard voice and common clothes made it ruder.