'I wish your uncle, Mr. Humpage, thought with you,' he said ruefully, 'but he has quite made up his mind that I am a villain of the deepest dye;' and then, encouraged to confide in her, he told the story of the old gentleman's furious entry and accusation. Mabel looked rather grave. 'How could he get such an idea into his head?' she said. 'I'm afraid _my_ uncle had something to do with that,' said Mark, and explained Mr. Lightowler's conduct. 'It's very silly of both of them,' she said; 'and then to drag _you_ into the quarrel, too! You know, old Mr. Humpage is not really my uncle--only one of those relations that sound like a prize puzzle when you try to make them out. Dolly always calls him Uncle Anthony--he's her godfather. But I wish you hadn't offended him, Mr. Ashburn, I do really. I've heard he can be a very bitter enemy. He has been a very good friend to papa; I believe he gave him almost the very first brief he ever had; and he's kind to all of us. But it's dangerous to offend him. Perhaps you will meet him here some day,' she added, 'and then we may be able to make him see how mistaken he has been.' 'How kind of you to care about it!' said he, and his eyes spoke his gratitude for the frank interest she had taken in his fortunes. 'Of course I care,' said Mabel, looking down as she spoke. 'I can't bear to see anyone I like and respect--as I do poor Uncle Anthony--persist in misjudging _anybody_ like that.' Mark had hoped more from the beginning of this speech than the conclusion quite bore out, but it was delightful to hear her talking something more than society nothings to him. However, that was ended for the present by the sudden irruption of the spoony young man into the conversation; he had come out very shattered from a desperate intellectual conflict with the young lady from Girton, to whom he had ventured on a remark which, as he made it, had seemed to him likely to turn out brilliant. 'You know,' he had announced solemnly, 'opinions may differ, but in these things I must say I don't think the exception's _always_ the rule--eh? don't you find that?' And his neighbour replied that she thought he had hit upon a profound philosophical truth, and then spoilt it by laughing. After which the young man, thinking internally 'it _sounded_ all right, wonder if it was such bosh as she seems to think,' had fled to Mabel for sanctuary and plunged into an account of his University disasters. 'I should have floored my "General" all right, you know,' he said, 'only I went in for too much poetry.' 'Poetry?' echoed Mabel, with a slight involuntary accent of surprise. 'Rhymes, you know, not regular poetry!' 'But, Mr. Pidgely, I don't quite see; why can't you floor generals with rhymes which are not regular poetry? Are they so particular in the army?'