There could be no better touchstone in such a matter than Butterwell.  He would go as the world went, but he would perceive almost intuitively how the world intended to go.  “Tact, tact, tact,” as he was in the habit of saying to himself when walking along the paths of his Putney villa.  Crosbie was now secretary, whereas a few months before he had been simply a clerk; but, nevertheless, Mr Butterwell’s instinct told him that Crosbie had fallen.  Therefore he declined to offer any sympathy to the man in his misfortune, and felt aware, as he left the secretary’s room, that it might probably be some time before he visited it again.

Crosbie resolved in his soreness that henceforth he would brazen it out.  He would go to the Board, with as much indifference as to his black eye as he was able to assume, and if any one said aught to him he would be ready with his answer.  He would go to his club, and let him who intended to show him any slight beware of him in his wrath.  He could not turn upon John Eames, but he could turn upon others if it were necessary.  He had not gained for himself a position before the world, and held it now for some years, to allow himself to be crushed at once because he had made a mistake.  If the world, his world, chose to go to war with him, he would be ready for the fight.  As for Butterwell,—­Butterwell the incompetent, Butterwell the vapid,—­for Butterwell, who in every little official difficulty had for years past come to him, he would let Butterwell know what it was to be thus disloyal to one who had condescended to be his friend.  He would show them all at the Board that he scorned them, and could be their master.  Then, too, as he was making some other resolves as to his future conduct, he made one or two resolutions respecting the de Courcy people.  He would make it known to them that he was not going to be their very humble servant.  He would speak out his mind with considerable plainness; and if upon that they should choose to break off this “alliance,” they might do so; he would not break his heart.  And as he leaned back in his arm chair, thinking of all this, an idea made its way into his brain,—­a floating castle in the air, rather than the image of a thing that might by possibility be realised; and in this castle in the air he saw himself kneeling again at Lily’s feet, asking her pardon, and begging that he might once more be taken to her heart.

“Mr Crosbie is here to-day,” said Mr Butterwell to Mr Optimist.

“Oh, indeed,” said Mr Optimist, very gravely; for he had heard all about the row at the railway station.

“They’ve made a monstrous show of him.”

“I am very sorry to hear it.  It’s so—­so—­so—­ If it were one of the younger clerks, you know, we should tell him that it was discreditable to the department.”

“If a man gets a blow in the eye, he can’t help it, you know.  He didn’t do it himself, I suppose,” said Major Fiasco.

“I am well aware that he didn’t do it himself,” continued Mr Optimist; “but I really think that, in his position, he should have kept himself out of any such encounter.”