'
'Say it again.'
'I said that in the part of the world I come from, you would be
called to account for it.'
'Only there?' cries Edwin Drood, with a contemptuous laugh. 'A
long way off, I believe? Yes; I see! That part of the world is at
a safe distance.'
'Say here, then,' rejoins the other, rising in a fury. 'Say
anywhere! Your vanity is intolerable, your conceit is beyond
endurance; you talk as if you were some rare and precious prize,
instead of a common boaster. You are a common fellow, and a common
boaster.'
'Pooh, pooh,' says Edwin Drood, equally furious, but more
collected; 'how should you know? You may know a black common
fellow, or a black common boaster, when you see him (and no doubt
you have a large acquaintance that way); but you are no judge of
white men.'
This insulting allusion to his dark skin infuriates Neville to that
violent degree, that he flings the dregs of his wine at Edwin
Drood, and is in the act of flinging the goblet after it, when his
arm is caught in the nick of time by Jasper.
'Ned, my dear fellow!' he cries in a loud voice; 'I entreat you, I
command you, to be still!' There has been a rush of all the three,
and a clattering of glasses and overturning of chairs. 'Mr.
Neville, for shame! Give this glass to me. Open your hand, sir.
I WILL have it!'
But Neville throws him off, and pauses for an instant, in a raging
passion, with the goblet yet in his uplifted hand.
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