"Women never see a joke," said Arthur huffily.
"Where's the joke in making Dale unhappy and--and absurd? And you call yourself his friend!"
"It's only a joke. Old Dale does deserve a dig, you know."
"And pray, why? You choose your friends, why mayn't he choose his? I dare say you would be glad enough to know that sort of people if you could."
"Oh, come, Nellie! I'm not like that. Besides, it's not the people; it's what he's written."
"I've read what he's written. It's beautiful. No, I call the whole thing horrid, and just like Dr. Roberts."
"I suppose you think, just like me, too?"
"If you don't write and warn Dale, I shall."
"I say, you mustn't do that. I told you in confidence. Roberts will be furious."
"What do I care for Dr. Roberts' fury? I shall write at once;" and she sat down at the table.
Arthur glanced in despair at Mrs. Hodge, but that discreet lady was entirely hidden in the evening paper.
"Well, I'll never tell you anything again, Nellie," he said.
"You'll never have the chance, unless you behave something like a gentleman," retorted Nellie.
Arthur banged the door as he went out, exclaiming:
"Damn Roberts! What does he want to make a row for?"
Meanwhile, the Doctor, who was angry enough with Arthur Angell to have rejoiced had he known that he had embroiled him in a quarter where Arthur was growing very anxious to stand well, was pacing the streets, nursing his resentment. His head ached, and fragments of what he had read, and half-forgotten conversations, mingling in his whirling brain, fretted and bewildered him. He could think of nothing but his wrongs and his revenge, returning always to hug himself on his own earnestness, and angrily to sneer at the weakness and treachery of his friends. Whatever it cost him or his, the world should see that there was one man ready to sacrifice himself for truth and right--and punish "that hound Dale Bannister."
As he walked, he bought the special edition of the paper, and, in hastily glancing at it, his eye was caught by the announcement that His Royal Highness the Duke of Mercia was to visit Lord Cransford, and would open the Institute at Market Denborough. The paragraph went on to describe the preparations being made to give the Prince a loyal reception, and ended by saying that it was hoped that the eminent poet, Mr. Dale Bannister, who was resident at Denborough, would consent to write a few lines of welcome to the illustrious visitor. The writer added a word or two of good-natured banter about Mr. Bannister's appearance in a new character, and the well-known effect which the proximity of royalty was apt to have on English republicanism. "Who knows," he concluded, "that Mr. Bannister may not figure as Sir Dale before long?"