“Trash and lies, of course.  He had never seen any of the de Courcy people.”

“I suppose the truth is, it was about that other—­eh, Crosbie?  I knew you’d find yourself in some trouble before you’d done.”

“I don’t know what it was about, or why he should have made such a brute of himself.  You have heard about those people at Allington?”

“Oh, yes; I have heard about them.”

“God knows, I didn’t mean to say anything against them.  They knew nothing about it.”

“But the young fellow knew them?  Ah, yes, I see all about it.  He wants to step into your shoes.  I can’t say that he sets about it in a bad way.  But what do you mean to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing!  Won’t that look queer?  I think I should have him before the magistrates.”

“You see, Butterwell, I am bound to spare that girl’s name.  I know I have behaved badly.”

“Well, yes; I fear you have.”

Mr Butterwell said this with some considerable amount of decision in his voice, as though he did not intend to mince matters, or in any way to hide his opinion.  Crosbie had got into a way of condemning himself in this matter of his marriage, but was very anxious that others, on hearing such condemnation from him, should say something in the way of palliating his fault.  It would be so easy for a friend to remark that such little peccadilloes were not altogether uncommon, and that it would sometimes happen in life that people did not know their own minds.  He had hoped for some such benevolence from Fowler Pratt, but had hoped in vain.  Butterwell was a good-natured, easy man, anxious to stand well with all about him, never pretending to any very high tone of feeling or of morals; and yet Butterwell would say no word of comfort to him.  He could get no one to slur over his sin for him, as though it were no sin,—­only an unfortunate mistake; no one but the de Courcys, who had, as it were, taken, possession of him and swallowed him alive.

“It can’t be helped now,” said Crosbie.  “But as for that fellow who made such a brutal attack on me the other morning, he knows that he is safe behind her petticoats.  I can do nothing which would not make some mention of her name necessary.”

“Ah, yes; I see,” said Butterwell.  “It’s very unfortunate; very.  I don’t know that I can do anything for you.  Will you come before the Board to-day?”

“Yes; of course I shall,” said Crosbie, who was becoming very sore.  His sharp ear had told him that all Butterwell’s respect and cordiality were gone,—­at any rate for the time.  Butterwell, though holding the higher official rank, had always been accustomed to treat him as though he, the inferior, were to be courted.  He had possessed, and had known himself to possess, in his office as well as in the outside world, a sort of rank much higher than that which from his position he could claim legitimately.  Now he was being deposed.