Gilead, risen also, faced him gravely.
“Would you mind telling me,” he said, “to what you are alluding all this time?”
“I am alluding, sir,” said Mr Brown, with sarcastic emphasis, “to the letter I had the honour of addressing to you yesterday, and the substance of which, I flattered myself, you had come to answer in person. My name is Brown.”
“I am unfortunate,” said Gilead. “I have much correspondence and a poor memory, and a name, however distinctive, is apt to slip me. I devoted, I am afraid, but a cursory examination to this morning’s letters. The penalty is mine.”
Mr Brown bowed stiffly.
“Assuredly not, sir, since, it seems, I have appealed to your munificence in vain.”
“The misfortune, sir,” said Gilead, “is, by your favour, easily amended for both of us.”
His courtesy was so charming, that the indignant gentleman was instantly mollified.
“You are very good,” he said. “Your frankness invites a warmer confidence than that I had already ventured in a sacred cause. You are acquainted, no doubt, with the name of Mrs Craddock Flight?”
Gilead bowed.