should say, 'This is going to put me back a bit, but nothing else.'"

Dale shrugged his shoulders and snorted. Mrs. Dale's eyebrows had
drawn so close together that they almost touched; her eyes appeared
darker, smaller, more opaque. Mr. Ridgett continued talking in a tone
of light facetiousness that seemed to cover a certain deprecating
earnestness.

"Yes, that would be _my_ point of view--quite general, philosophical.
I should say to myself, 'Old chap, if you're in for a jolly good
wigging, why, just take it. If you're to be offered a little humble
pie to eat--well, eat it.'"

"I won't," cried Dale, loudly; and he struck the table with his
clenched fist. "I'm not goin' to crawl on my belly any more. I've done
it in my time, when perhaps I felt myself wrong. But I won't do it now
when I'm right--no, so help me, God, I won't."

It was as if all restraints had been burst by the notion of such
injustice.

"Ah, well," said Ridgett, looking uncomfortable, "then I must withdraw
the suggestion."

Mavis Dale was trembling. Her husband's noisy outburst seemed to have
shaken her nerves; the downward lines formed themselves at the corners
of her mouth; and her eyelids fluttered as if she were on the verge of
tears. "Will," she murmured, "you--you ought to listen, if it's good
advice. Mr. Ridgett knows the ropes--he, he has experience--and he
means you well."