“Looks as though you had turned sulky,” remonstrated Payne.
“I have!” said Erb.
The new number of “The Carman,” which he himself had made up, contained a brief paragraph, to make room for which a quotation from Ruskin had been deleted.
“We beg to state that Herbert Barnes has no longer any connection with the Society, and that the position of Secretary will be filled up at the next meeting of the committee. At present everything points to Friend Doubleday, who is in a position to devote the whole of his time to the work, and can be relied on not to have dealings with the representatives of capital.”
More stings came on the way up the Boro’ to London Bridge station. Four railway carmen he met, driving their vans, instead of the “Hello!” and the mystic twist of the whip, there was first a glance of cautious recognition, then a steady look ahead, with an air of absorbed interest, as though realising for the first time the horse’s presence. At the station itself, men of his old Society, on seeing him, hurried round to the tails of their vans, and commenced sorting parcels there with amazing industry. All this sent Erb into the deeper depths, and it was not until he reached Worthing, and found on the platform Rosalind and Aunt Emma and his sister, Louisa, Louisa’s white face becoming pink with excitement, that he forgot his worries.
“Well,” said Aunt Emma, “what’s the best news?”
“There isn’t any best news,” replied Erb.
They went, arm in arm, down the long road to the sea front, and in a shelter there, Erb sat between them, and for the first time since the downfall found the luxury of detailed description and frank avowal. When the account came of the worst Rosalind touched his sleeve sympathetically.
“And there you are!” said Erb when he had finished. He found himself now inclined to look on the disasters as though they had occurred to someone else with whom he had nothing in common. “And here I am, in about as awkward a situation as I’ve ever been in in all my life.”
“Complimentary to us,” said Rosalind brightly.