For a long time, as I have said, the strong feudal hab-its of subordination and deference continued to tell upon the working class. The modern spirit has now almost entirely dissolved those habits . . . More and more this and that man, and this and that body of men, all over the country, are beginning to assert and put in practice an Englishman’s right to do what he likes: his right to march where he likes, meet where he likes, enter where he likes, hoot as he likes, threaten as he likes, smash as he likes. All this, I say, tends to anarchy.

—Matthew Arnold, Culture and Anarchy (1869)

Dr. Grogan was mercifully not on his rounds. Charles refused the housekeeper’s invitation to go in, but waited on the doorstep until the little doctor came hurriedly down to meet him—and stepped, at a gesture from Charles, outside the door so that their words could not be heard.

“I have just broken off my engagement. She is very dis-tressed. I beg you not to ask for explanation—and to go to Broad Street without delay.”

Grogan threw Charles an astounded look over his specta-cles, then without a word went back indoors. A few seconds later he reappeared with his hat and medical bag. They began walking at once.

“Not. . . ?”

Charles nodded; and for once the little doctor seemed too shocked to say any more. They walked some twenty or thirty steps.

“She is not what you think, Grogan. I am certain of that.”

“I am without words, Smithson.”

“I seek no excuse.”

“She knows?”

“That there is another. No more.” They turned the corner and began to mount Broad Street. “I must ask you not to reveal her name.” The doctor gave him a fierce little side-look. “For Miss Woodruff’s sake. Not mine.”

The doctor stopped abruptly. “That morning—am I to understand ... ?”

“I beg you. Go now. I will wait at the inn.”

But Grogan remained staring, as if he too could not believe he was not in some nightmare. Charles stood it a moment, then, gesturing the doctor on up the hill, began to cross the street towards the White Lion.

“By heavens, Smithson ...”

Charles turned a moment, bore the Irishman’s angry look, then continued without word on his way. As did the doctor, though he did not quit Charles with his eyes till he had disappeared under the rain-porch.

Charles regained his rooms, in time to see the doctor admitted into Aunt Tranter’s house. He entered with him in spirit; he felt like a Judah, an Ephialtes, like every traitor since time began. But he was saved from further self-maceration by a knock on the door. Sam appeared.

“What the devil do you want? I didn’t ring.” Sam opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. Charles could not bear the shock of that look. “But now you’ve come—fetch me a glass of brandy.”

But that was mere playing for time. The brandy was brought, and Charles sipped it; and then once more had to face his servant’s stare.

“It’s never true, Mr. Charles?”

“Were you at the house?”

“Yes, Mr. Charles.”

Charles went to the bay window overlooking Broad Street.

“Yes, it is true. Miss............