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He longed for Falk with a great longing. He could not hold out against the boy for very much longer; but even then, were the quarrel made up, things would not now he the same. Falk did not need him any more. He had new life, new friends, new work. "It's my nerves," thought Brandon. "I will go and see Puddifoot."
Positively he dared, when a year ago he would have bent down and wiped the dust off his shoes! Positively! That man! That worm! That mean, sycophantic...He was beginning to get angry. He must not get angry. That's what Puddifoot had said, that had been the one thing that old Puddifoot had said correctly. He must not get angry, not even with Ronder.
Brandon may have his faults, but this town and everything decent in it hangs by him. Take him away and the place drops to pieces. I suppose you think you're going to introduce your Ronders as up-to-date rivals. We prefer things as they are, thank you." Miss Stiles' already bright colouring was a little brighter. She knew her Betsy Combermere, but she resented rebukes before Puddifoot.
Combermere also lived in the Precincts, so that Mrs. Brandon had not far to go. Before she arrived there a little conversation took place between the lady of the house, Miss Stiles, Miss Dobell and Dr. Puddifoot, that her presence would most certainly have hindered. Mrs.
He was tired, certainly, and had felt ever since the shock of three days back a certain "warning" sensation that hovered over him rather like hot air, suggesting that sudden agonizing pain...but so long as the pain did not come...He had thought, half derisively, of seeing old Puddifoot, even of having himself overhauled but Puddifoot was an ass.
Miss Stiles' voice was softer and slower than any complaining cow's. "Yes. I hear you've all been laughing about the elephant. That was a thing that might have happened to any one." Puddifoot laughed. "The point is, though, that it happened to Brandon. That's the joke. And his new top hat." "Well, I won't have it. Milk, doctor? Miss Dobell and I agree that it's a shame."
They stood and talked, then, as they were both going into the town, they turned and walked towards the Arden Gate. Puddifoot talked about his health; like many doctors he was very timid about himself and eager to reassure himself in public. "How are you, Canon? But I needn't ask looking splendid. I'm all right myself never felt better really.
Meanwhile Joan, in another moment, was at her door. What had happened? Oh, what had happened? Had he been brought back dying and bleeding? Had that horrible man set upon him, there in the High Street, while every one was about? Was the doctor there, Mr. Puddifoot? Would there perhaps have to be an operation? This would kill her father.
Then, instead of turning, he leaned forward, gripping the Lectern with both hands, and seemed again to be searching for some one. "Looks as though he were going to have a stroke," thought Puddifoot. Then very carefully, as though he were moving in darkness, he turned and groped his way downwards. With bent head he walked back into the choir.
I have letters to write." She went out. She stood in the hall, her hands clasped together. What was she to do? The worst that she had ever feared had occurred. He was mad. She went into the drawing-room, where the sun was blazing as though it would set the carpet on fire. What was she to do? What ought she to do? Should she fetch Puddifoot or some older woman like Mrs.
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