"I have not refused to assist you," was the reply; "on the contrary. You, however, preferred my men to me, and you have reaped the fruits of your preference, that is all."
"That is not all," said Mr. Swanland, "you were bound to make over your formulæ to me."
"I think not," was the reply. "I do not profess to know much of this new law by virtue of which I have been stripped of everything, and my creditors have not been benefited to the extent of a single shilling, but, still, I imagine no law can take away not merely a man's goods, but also his brains. If you can get any Vice-Chancellor to compel me to explain how to make my colours, without my assistance, of course I must bow to his decision, though, in that case, I should take leave to tell his Honour that although some colour-maker might be able to make use of the information, an accountant certainly never could."
Hearing which sentence Mr. Swanland stared. He had never before seen Mortomley roused. He did not know each man has his weak point, and that Mortomley's pregnable spot lay close to the colours himself had begotten.
Homewood, his business, his house, his furniture, his horses, his carriages, his plant, his connection, Mortomley had yielded without a struggle, but his mental children he could not so relinquish, nor would he. Upon that point Mortomley, generally pliable, was firm, and consequently, after an amount of bickering only a degree less unpleasant to the trustee than to the bankrupt, Mortomley shook the dust of Salisbury House off his feet, declaring his intention of never entering it again.
As he passed down the staircase he met Mr. Asherill.
"Ah! Mr. Mortomley, and how are you?" cried that gentleman with effusion. "Getting on pretty well, eh? Had your discharge, of course? No. Why they ought to have given it to you long ago. So glad to see you looking so well. Good-bye, God bless you."
Never in his life had Mortomley felt more tempted to do anything than he did at that moment to pitch the old hypocrite downstairs.
"My discharge!" he exclaimed, when he was recounting the incidents of the day to his wife, "and the vagabond knew it was never intended I should have it. Looking well! why, just as I was going out into the street, Gibbons ran up against me.
"'What's the matter, Mortomley?' he said, 'you look like a ghost,' and he made me go back into the passage, and sent for some brandy, and he hailed a cab, and remarking, 'Perhaps you have not got much money loose about you, take this, and you can pay me when you are next in town, six months hence will do,' he forced his purse into my hand. I used to think hardly of Gibbons, but he is not a bad fellow as times go."