Then with an upward jerk of the head and an ejaculation, half smothered oath, half sharp laughter--as of one who registers eminently ironic conclusions--he began deliberately ascending the slope.
Tom Verity, though possessed of plentiful cheekiness towards the majority of his elders and betters, was no fire-eater.

He preferred diplomacy to war; and would adroitly evade rather than invite anything approaching a scene, specially in the presence of a woman.

Yet under existing circumstances retreat had become, as he perceived, not only undignified but useless.

So in his best Oxford manner--a manner ornate, at that period, and quite crushingly superior--he raised his shoulders, smiled faintly, resignedly, and disposed himself in an easier attitude, saying: "Better wait, perhaps, my dear Damaris.

I would sooner risk losing those precious letters than acquire a possible escort for you--and for myself--down to the river and across the ferry." And he threw a meaning glance over his shoulder, indicating the obtrusive stranger.
So doing he received a disturbing impression.