“Oh, I don’t in the least read it up as ruin and all the rest of it.  It’s just a check.  In Mr. Dale’s place, I should be philosophical.  I 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.”

“Indeed I do,” said Ridgett cordially.

“And I thank you for it, sir,” said Dale.  “And now—­” He mastered his emotions and was calm and polite again, as became a host.  “Now, what about two or three whiffs?”

“If madam permits.”

“Mav don’t mind.  She’s smoke-dried.”

All three remained sitting at the table.  The two men smoked their pipes reflectively, and spoke only at intervals, while Mavis sank into the motionless silence of a deep reverie.  The golden sunlight came no more into the room; bright colors of oleograph pictures, hearth-rug, and window-curtains imperceptibly faded; the whole world seemed to be growing quiet and cool and gray.  The sounds of voices and the rumble of passing wheels rose so drowsily from the street that they did not disturb one’s sense of peace.

All at once Mavis roused herself, or rather, seemed to be roused involuntarily by some inward sensation—­perhaps an ugly and unexpected turn that her thoughts had suddenly taken.  She gave a little shiver, looked across the table at the visitor as if surprised at his presence, and then began to talk to him volubly.

“Do you know this part of the world?  It’s a pretty country—­especially the forest side.  Lots of artists and photographers come here on purpose to take the views.”

For a little while she and Mr. Ridgett chatted gaily together; and Dale observed, not without satisfaction, that the deputy patently admired Mavis.  “Yes,” he thought, “it must be an eye-opener for him or anybody else to come up those stairs and find a postmaster’s wife with all the education and manners of a lady, and as pretty as a bunch of primroses into the bargain.”