“I, ah, don’t think I’ll present myself before Mrs. Dale—­ah, without more preparation than this.  Besides, would it not put her out?”

“No, indeed.  Quite unceremonious—­taking us exactly as you find us—­pot-luck.”

“Then be it so.  You are very good.  Thank you, William.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bates.”  Dale seized upon the visitor’s hat and stick.  “Now you may cut along, Norah, and tell Mrs. Dale that Mr. Bates is kind enough to stay supper—­without ceremony.”

Norah glided across the office to the inner door, and, going out, asked if she should bring a lamp.

“Yes, bring the lamp in ten minutes—­not before.  There’s light enough for two such old friends to chat together;” and Dale waited until she had shut the door.  “Now, sir, this is kind and friendly.  Give me your hand, Mr. Bates.  I’d like to hold it in mine, while I say these few prelim’nary words.”

“Yes, William?” The old man had immediately offered his hand, and he looked up with a puzzled and anxious expression.

“I merely wish to assure you, Mr. Bates, very sincerely, that if you at this moment could see right into my heart, you’d plainly see my respect, and what is more, my true affection for you, sir.”

“I believe it, William.”

“And it has always been a source of comfort to me to think that you, sir, have entertained a most kindly feeling to me, sir.”

Mr. Bates had averted his eyes, and he moved his feet restlessly, his demeanor seeming to indicate that he regretted having accepted the supper invitation and was perhaps desirous of withdrawing his acceptance.

“I hope,” Dale went on, “I haven’t been presumptuous in my estimate of your feeling, sir.”

“No.”  And the old man looked up again.  His eyes, his whole face had grown soft, and the tone of his voice was firm, yet rather low and very sweet.  “No, William, my feeling for you began in taking note of your sharpness combined with your steady ways, and it has ended in love.”

“That’s a large word, Mr. Bates.”

“It’s no larger than the truth.”

“Then I say ‘Thank you, sir, for the honor you have done me.’” Dale pressed the old chap’s hand, dropped it, and returned to the high stool.  “And now, after what has passed between us two, man to man, you’ll credit me with no disrespectfulness if I make bold to let fall certain remarks.”

Bates nodded his white head and stared at the floor.

“There’s a thing, sir, that I particularly want to say.  It is about yourself, sir—­”

“Go on, William,” said Mr. Bates, “and get it over.  I know what you’re after, of course—­something about Richard.  Well, I’ll take it from you.  I wouldn’t take it from any one else.”

“D’you remember all you used to advise me about the danger of rats, telling me to fight ’em as if it was the devil himself, horns and tail, and not just so many stinking little avaricious rodents?  You said, one rat was sufficient to mess me up.”