“Impossible!” cried Mr. Plummer in a voice of genuine alarm. “You’re joking, I hope.”
“Why impossible, pray?” asked Mr. Bent, in tones of unusual chilliness.
“Why, because ...” replied Mr. Plummer irritably, “... it’s really very difficult to explain ... but of all people you’re the very last who ought to succeed Chowdler. Think what people would say!”
“What would they say?” asked Mr. Bent doggedly.
The task of enlightening an obtuse friend as to what people are saying of him is a delicate one; and Mr. Plummer couldn’t help thinking that Bent was singularly and unexpectedly obtuse.
“Well, of course,” he began, “it has been said by ill-natured people—when you became a Flaggonite, you know, and seemed to be seeing a good deal of him, that.... Well, in fact, that you had an axe of your own to grind, and wanted——”
“The women, I suppose,” interrupted Mr. Bent.
“I expect so,” Mr. Plummer admitted.
Mr. Bent had always suspected that something of this kind would be said. But it is one thing to have disagreeable suspicions, and another to hear them confirmed. He looked pained, and said after a short pause:
“And do you believe it?”