‘Were I in the way of lending money, sir,’ said Phil with great deliberation, ‘’twould be to another sort of man than you.’ ‘Ha, ha—very good—the poor ever with us,’ said Prior uneasily; ‘but indeed you make a mistake when you take me for a rich man. I am constantly pressed for funds, as you see me to-day; you could scarcely find a needier object for accommodation, you——’ ‘I could easily find a better,’ said Phil. ‘Philip, you call my honour in question!’ cried Prior. ‘I would never trouble to do so,’ said Phil; ‘because I do not consider that you have got any.’ For far less provocation men in those fighting days had risked their precious lives, as Phil was well aware. He had calculated the chances of having to fight with Prior, and his calculations were verified: Prior had no intention of fighting; he had swallowed many an insult. ‘For your father’s sake, Philip, I will not go further into the dispute,’ he said with the sorry attempt at dignity of a man who knows himself in the wrong. Philip walked to the door and flung it open. ‘Adieu, Mr. Simon Prior,’ he said with great mock ceremony. And Carrie was not troubled with any more visits. CHAPTER XXIX Simon Prior had come out to Fairmeadowes to beg. It was not the first time he had begged from Richard Meadowes, and he had little shame about doing it. He even assumed a slightly bullying air as he made his modest demand for £100—he had not gone so high with Philip. Meadowes sat by the fire in his usual easy lounging attitude. He did not look like a man inclined to dispute anything, and he listened quietly to Prior’s demand. But after he had considered it for a moment he spoke with the greatest decision of tone. ‘No, Prior; I have decided to give you no more. You’ve been bleeding me these twenty years, now you’ll bleed me no longer.’ Prior stood aghast, and Meadowes continued, ‘Angry, I suppose? Well, take what revenge you will. Mine is an old story now. Your own character, such as it is, will suffer full as much as mine should you make it public.’ He paused and drew his hand slowly across his eyes. ‘The fact is, I care no longer: I have nothing to lose: life is done—I would it had never begun for me. Mistake upon mistake; and now a dead heart. D’you remember the old torment? They used to build living men into a wall slowly with bricks and mortar; every day the tomb closed more and more round them. Well, I am alive still, but the wall is closing round me; it hath reached the heart now and presses sore upon it—well-nigh hath pressed the life out of it. I have built myself into this living tomb with my own hands too—there’s the special torture.’ He paused, wondering if Prior understood one half of his meaning. He did not; the higher feelings had been left out of his nature; he did not even guess at his friend’s mood.