‘Slate, Maggie,’ Robert ordered laconically, with a gesture towards the mantelpiece behind him.

‘Yes, Mr Robert,’ said Maggie.

She gave him a slate with slate-pencil attached, which hung on a nail near the mantlepiece.

Robert took the slate and wrote on it:  ’What is Liversage coming about?’

And he pushed the slate across the table to John.

Whereupon John wrote on the slate:  ’Don’t know.  He telephoned me he wanted to see us tonight.’

And he pushed back the slate to Robert.

This singular procedure was not in the least attributable to deafness on the part of the brothers; they were in the prime of life, aged forty-two and thirty-nine respectively, and in complete possession of all their faculties.  It was due simply to the fact that they had quarrelled, and would not speak to each other.  The history of their quarrel would be incredible were it not full of that ridiculous pathetic quality known as human nature, and did not similar things happen frequently in the manufacturing Midlands, where the general temperament is a fearful and strange compound of pride, obstinacy, unconquerableness, romance, and stupidity.  Yes, stupidity.

No single word had passed between the brothers in that house for ten years.  On the morning after the historical quarrel Robert had not replied when John spoke to him.  ‘Well,’ said John’s secret heart—­and John’s secret heart ought to have known better, as it was older than its brother heart—­’I’ll teach him a lesson.  I won’t speak until he does.’  And Robert’s secret heart had somehow divined this idiotic resolution, and had said:  ‘We shall see.’  Maggie had been the first to notice the stubborn silence.  Then their friends noticed it, especially Mr Liversage, the solicitor, their most intimate friend.  But you are not to suppose that anybody protested very strongly.  For John and Robert were not the kind of men with whom liberties may be taken; and, moreover, Bursley was slightly amused—­at the beginning.  It assumed the attitude of a disinterested spectator at a fight.  It wondered who would win.  Of course, it called both the brothers fools, yet in a tone somewhat sympathetic, because such a thing as had occurred to the Hessians might well occur to any man gifted with the true Bursley spirit.  There is this to be said for a Bursley man:  Having made his bed, he will lie on it, and he will not complain.

The Hessians suffered severely by their self-imposed dumbness, but they suffered like Stoics.  Maggie also suffered, and Maggie would not stand it.  Maggie it was who had invented the slate.  Indeed, they had heard some plain truths from that stout, bustling woman.  They had not yielded, but they had accepted the slate in order to minimize the inconvenience to Maggie, and afterwards they deigned to make use of it for their own purposes.  As for friends—­friends accustomed themselves to the status quo.  There