“Please, sir,” said he, “we’ve brought the impositions.”
“Eh?” said the doctor.
“The impositions, sir. We didn’t want to be let off, so we stayed in yesterday afternoon, all of us, and wrote them.”
From the tones in which Merrison uttered this explanation one might have supposed he expected the doctor to fall on his neck and shed tears of joy over the lofty virtue of his pupils.
Dr Patrick was quick enough to take in the state of affairs at once, and was wise enough to make the best of the situation.
“Ah,” said he, coolly, taking Morrison’s proffered imposition and glancing his eyes down it. “I am glad to see you desire to make amends for what occurred on Saturday. You can leave the impositions on this table.”
“Please, sir, it’s not that,” said Merrison, hurriedly, alarmed at being suspected of anything like contrition. “It’s not that; we—”
“You can leave the impositions on the table,” said the doctor, sternly, turning at the same time to continue his conversation with Mr Parrett, which the arrival of the visitors had interrupted.
It was a sad blow for Willoughby, this! They had expected better things. They had meant their act of self-devotion to be a crushing defiance to the Radical, and even a mild rebuke to the doctor himself. But it had turned out neither.
Slowly and sorrowfully they filed past the table and laid their sacrifices thereon, and then departed, dejected and crestfallen. The doctor, with his back turned, never noticed them, and no one had the hardihood to attempt further to attract his attention.