He stamped, he shook his fist, he shook his head.

The very tips of his ears looked scarlet with rage.
Every now and then he faced round to the spectators, and appealed to them--or to a stout woman with a green fan, who was almost as red and angry as himself, and who always rushed forward when addressed, and shook the green fan in Sullivan's face.
"You are an aristocrat!" stormed the young man.

"A pampered, insolent aristocrat! A dog of an Englishman! A _scelerat_! Don't suppose you are to trample upon us for nothing! We are Frenchmen, you beggarly islander--Frenchmen, do you hear ?" A growl of sympathetic indignation ran through the crowd, and "_a bas les aristocrats_--_a bas les Anglais_!" broke out here and there.
"In the devil's name, Sullivan," said Dalrymple, shouldering his way up to the object of these agreeable menaces, "what have you been after, to bring this storm about your ears ?" "Pshaw! nothing at all," replied he with a mocking laugh, and a contemptuous gesture.

"I danced with a pretty girl, and treated her to champagne afterwards.

Her mother and brother hunted us out, and spoiled our flirtation.