Mr. Worthington cut the envelope and began to read, and while he did so Mr. Flint, who was not afraid of man or beast, looked at him.  It was a manly and straight forward letter, and Mr. Worthington, no matter what his opinions on the subject were, should have been proud of it.  Bob announced, first of all, that he was going to marry Cynthia Wetherell; then he proceeded with praiseworthy self-control (for a lover) to describe Cynthia’s character and attainments:  after which he stated that Cynthia had refused him—­twice, because she believed that Mr. Worthington would oppose the marriage, and had declared that she would never be the cause of a breach between father and son.  Bob asked for his father’s consent, and hoped to have it, but he thought it only right to add that he had given his word and his love, and did not mean to retract either.  He spoke of his visit to Brampton, and explained that Cynthia was teaching school there, and urged his father to see her before he made a decision.  Mr. Worthington read it through to the end, his lips closing tighter and tighter until his mouth was but a line across his face.  There was pain in the face, too, the kind of pain which anger sends, and which comes with the tottering of a pride that is false.  Of what gratification now was the overthrow of Jethro Bass?

He stared at the letter for a moment after he had finished it, and his face grew a dark red.  Then he seized the paper and tore it slowly, deliberately, into bits.

Dudley Worthington was not thinking then—­not he!—­of the young man in the white beaver who had called at the Social Library many years before to see a young woman whose name, too, had been Cynthia.—­He was thinking, in fact, for he was a man to think in anger, whether it were not possible to remove this Cynthia from the face of the earth—­at least to a place beyond his horizon and that of his son.  Had he worn the chain mail instead of the frock coat he would have had her hung outside the town walls.

“Good God!” he exclaimed.  And the words sounded profane indeed as he fixed his eyes upon Mr. Flint.  “You knew that Robert had been to Brampton.”

“Yes,” said Flint, “the whole village knew it.”

“Good God!” cried Mr. Worthington again, “why was I not informed of this?  Why was I not warned of this?  Have I no friends?  Do you pretend to look after my interests and not take the trouble to write me on such a subject.”

“Do you think I could have prevented it?” asked Mr. Flint, very calmly.

“You allow this—­this woman to come here to Brampton and teach school in a place where she can further her designs?  What were you about?”

“When the prudential committee appointed her, nothing of this was known, Mr. Worthington.”

“Yes, but now—­now!  What are you doing, what are they doing to allow her to remain?  Who are on that committee?”

Mr. Flint named the men.  They had been reelected, as usual, at the recent town-meeting.  Mr. Errol, who had also been reelected, had returned but had not yet issued the certificate or conducted the examination.