“I am so sorry, Arthur,” said Lucy, apologetically, but at bottom she was inexorable.  The disease reached its climax just before dinner.  All remedies failed, and there was nothing for it but to return to her own room, and read the last new tale of domestic interest—­and principle—­until sleep came to her relief.

After dinner Arthur shot out with the retiring servants, and interred himself in the study, where he sought out with care such wild romances as give entirely false views of life, and found them, “and so shut up in measureless content.” —­Macbeth.

The seniors consulted at their ease.  They both appreciated the painful phenomenon, but they differed toto coelo as to the cause.  Mr. Fountain ascribed it to the somber influence of Mrs. Bazalgette, and miscalled her, till Jane’s hair stood on end:  she happened to be the one at the keyhole that night.  Mr. Talboys laid all the blame on David Dodd.  The discussion was vigorous, and occupied more than two hours, and each party brought forward good and plausible reasons; and, if neither made any progress toward converting the other, they gained this, at least, that each corroborated himself.  Now Mrs. Bazalgette was gone no direct reprisals on her were possible.  Registering a vow that one day or other he would be even with her, the senior consented, though not very willingly, to co-operate with his friend against an imaginary danger.  In answer to his remark that the Dodds were never invited to tea now, Mr. Talboys had replied:  “But I find from Mr. Arthur he visits the house every day on the pretense of teaching him mathematics—­a barefaced pretense—­a sailor teach mathematics!” Mr. Fountain had much ado to keep his temper at this pertinacity in a jealous dream.  He gulped his ire down, however, and said, somewhat sullenly:  “I really cannot consent to send my poor friend’s son to the University a dunce, and there is no other mathematician near.”

“If I find you one,” said Talboys, hastily, “will you relieve Mr. Dodd of his labors, and me of his presence?”

“Certainly,” said the other.  Poor David!

“Then there is my friend Bramby.  He is a second wrangler.  He shall take Arthur, and keep him till Miss Fountain leaves us.  Bramby will refuse me nothing.  I have a living in my gift, and the incumbent is eighty-eight.”

The senior consented with a pitying smile.

“Bramby will take him next week,” said Talboys, severely.

Mr. Fountain nodded his head.  It was all the assent he could effect:  and at that moment there passed through him the sacrilegious thought that the Conqueror must have imported an ass or two among his other forces, and that one of these, intermarrying with Saxon blood, had produced a mule, and that mule was his friend.

The same uneasy jealousy, which next week was to expel David from Font Abbey, impelled Mr. Talboys to call the very next day at one o’clock to see what was being done under cover of trigonometry.  He found Mr. and Miss Fountain just sitting down to luncheon.  David and Arthur were actually together somewhere, perhaps going through the farce of geometry.  He was half vexed at finding no food for his suspicions.  Presently, so spiteful is chance, the door opened, and in marched Arthur and David.