"Yes. If you had really only done it to please--an individual, it would be worth nothing. You couldn't help doing it. I knew you couldn't." "At any rate, you must accept the responsibility of having put it into my head." "Not even that, Mr. Bannister." "Oh, but that's the meaning of the dedication." No one is quite free from guile. Janet answered: "The dedication is rather mysterious, Mr. Bannister." "I meant it to be so to all the world." "Oh, did you?" "Except you." Janet blushed and smiled. "I wonder," pursued Dale, "if I shall ever be allowed to name that lady?" "That will depend on whether she wishes it." "Of course. Do you think she will--hereafter?" "Won't you have another cup? It's only half a crown." "Yes, two more, please. Do you think she will?" "How thirsty you seem to be!" "Will she?" "Now, Mr. Bannister, I mustn't neglect all my customers. See, Mrs. Gilkison is selling nothing." "But will she?" "Certainly not--unless you go and buy something from Mrs. Gilkison." Now whether Janet were really concerned for Mrs. Gilkison, or whether she had caught sight of Captain Ripley's lowering countenance, or whether she merely desired to avoid pledging herself to Dale, it is immaterial, and also impossible to say. Dale felt himself dismissed, with the consolation of perceiving that his dedication had not been unfavorably received in the quarter to which it was addressed. Accordingly it was in a cheerful frame of mind that he set out for home, scattering most of his purchases among the children before he went. He was in a kindly mood, and when he saw James Roberts coming up High Street, he did not, as he had once or twice lately, cross the road to avoid meeting him, but held on his path, determined to offer a friendly greeting. When the Doctor came up, he stopped and took from his breast pocket the little green volume which contained Dale's latest poems. He held it up before the author's eyes. "Ah, Roberts, I see you have the new work. How do you like it?" He tried to speak easily, but the Doctor did not appear to be in a conciliatory temper. "Are these things really yours?" he asked. "Of course they are." "This wretched jingo doggerel yours?" Dale felt this unjust. The verses might not express the Doctor's views, but an immortal poet's works are not lightly to be called doggerel. "What a narrow-minded beggar you are!" he exclaimed. The Doctor answered nothing. Buttoning up his threadbare coat, so as to leave his arms free, with an effort he tore the leaves from their cover, rent them across, flung them on the road, and trod them into the mud. Then, without a word, he passed on his way, while Dale stood and stared at the dishonored wreck. "He's mad--stark mad!" he declared at last. "How ill the poor chap looks, too!"