"It's the truth, William. I can't afford these premises any longer."
"Oh, come, we can't have that. We haven't so many friends that we can put up with losing the one we value most of all."
Then he told Mr. Bates what he had done at Manninglea.
The old man frowned, flushed, and began to tremble.
"You shouldn't 'a' done that, William. It was a liberty. I must write and say my notice holds good."
Then there was a brief but most painful conversation, Dale nearly shedding tears while he pleaded to be allowed on this one occasion to act as banker, and Bates resolutely refusing help, refusing even to admit how much help was needed.
"William," he said obdurately, "I recognize your kind intention—but you've made a mistake. You shouldn't have done it, without a word to me. I can only repeat, it was a liberty."
Dale of course apologized, but went on pleading. It was all no use. Obviously Mr. Bates' pride had been wounded to the quick. He was white, shaky, so old, so feeble, and yet firm as a rock. Never till now had he spoken to Dale in such tones of stiff reproof.
"William, we'll say no more. I have paid my way all my days, and at my present age it's a bit too late to start differently."
His last words were: "I shall write next post to confirm the notice."