Mr. Colt relinquished his charge with a wave of the hand. His manner showed that he accepted the new truce de bon cœur.
"Is it peace, you two?" he called, as he went past.
Brother Warboise growled. What hast thou to do with peace? Get thee behind me, the growl seemed to suggest. At all events, it suggested this answer to Brother Copas—
"If you and Jehu the son of Nimshi start exchanging rôles," he chuckled, "where will Weekes come in?"
Master Blanchminster let himself in with his latchkey, and went up the stairs to his library. On the way he meditated on the story to which he had just listened, and the words that haunted his mind were Wordsworth's—
"Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning."
"Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning."
A solitary light burned in the library—the electric lamp on his table beside the fire-place. It had a green shade, and for a second or two the Master did not perceive that someone stood a pace or two from it in the penumbra.
"Master!"
"Hey!"—with a start—"Is it Simeon?… My good Simeon, you made me jump. What brings you back here at this hour? You've forgotten some paper, I suppose."