They met at the gate of Dingle’s house, and Ned spoke.
“Come in the house, and you can speak first—no, I will.”
They entered the little parlour and sat down opposite each other.
“I hear you’ve lost your stroke. I suppose to find what I meant to do was a bit too shattering. No doubt you’ll get it back. I’ve no wish to come between you and your livelihood; but when you and my wife hatched this bit of wickedness, you didn’t stop to think whether it would play hell with my nerves; and if you’d known it would, that wouldn’t have changed you.”
“That’s quite true,” admitted Kellock, “and, I may tell you, it’s come home to me pretty sharp before you said it. As for me, I may get my stroke again, or I may not; and if I don’t, I shall never blame you—I shall blame myself. Those that think they stand, often get a fall, and I’m not too proud to confess to you that that’s what has happened to me.”
“Serve you right.”
“I don’t matter any more. What matters is Medora, and I shall be greatly obliged if you’ll allow me to speak a few words on that subject.”
“The fewer the better.”
“I come from myself, understand. She knows nothing about it. I didn’t ask her, because if she’d said ‘no,’ I couldn’t have come. And she might have forbid.”
“Well, get on with it.”