"Oh, London! who the deuce could make love in London?" asked Dale in narrow-minded ignorance. "People's faces are always dirty in London." Philip smiled, but this new plan seemed to him a bad one. It was one of Dale's graces to be unconscious of most of his triumphs, and it had evidently never struck him that Nellie's affections would offer any obstacle to the scheme, or cause her fatally to misinterpret what the scheme was. "I don't see," said Philip, "that she is more likely to be captivated by our young friend here than in London." "My dear fellow, he's at work there, and so is she. Here they'll have nothing else to do." While Dale chattered over his great idea, Philip pondered whether to interfere or not. He was certain that Nellie had been fond, not of Arthur Angell, but of Dale himself; he feared she would think her invitation came from Dale's own heart, not in favor to a friend, and he suspected the kindness would end in pain. But, on the other hand, affections change, and there is such a thing as falling back on the good when the better is out of reach; and, finally, there is a sound general principle that where it is doubtful whether to hold one's tongue or not, one's tongue should be held. Philip held his. He shrugged his shoulders and said: "If this goes on, a bachelor won't be safe in Denborough. What have you been doing?" and he pointed at some scribbling which lay on the table. Dale flushed a little. "Oh, I've just been trying my hand at that little thing they want me to do--you know." "For the Radical meeting?" "No, no. For the Duke of Mercia's visit." "Oh! So you're going to do it?" Dale assumed a candid yet judicial air. "If I find I can say anything gracious and becoming, without going back on my principles, Phil, I think I shall. Otherwise not." "I see, old fellow. Think you will be able?" "I don't intend to budge an inch from my true position for anybody." "Don't be too hard on the Duke. He's a young man." Dale became suspicious that he was being treated with levity; he looked annoyed, and Philip hastened to add: "My dear boy, write your poem, and never mind what people tell you about your principles. Why shouldn't you write some verses to the young man?" "That's what I say," replied Dale eagerly. "It doesn't compromise me in the least. I think you're quite right, Phil." And he sat down again with a radiant expression. Philip lit his pipe, and drew his chair near the fire, listening idly to the light scratchings of the writing and the heavy scratchings of the erasures. "You seem to scratch out a lot, Dale," he remarked. "A thing's no good," said Dale, without turning round, "till you've scratched it all out twice at least." "It's a pity, then," said Philip, pulling at his pipe and looking into the fire, "that we aren't allowed to treat life like that." His words struck a chord in Dale's memory. He started up, and repeated: