Some people supposed, and many hoped, that, when the verdict was given against him, Mr. Chowdler would leave at once or at least withdraw from active life; and the headmaster allowed it to be known in the Chowdler circle, through Mr. Chase, that if such a step were contemplated everything would be done to make it easy. But Mr. Chowdler preferred to die fighting. In deference to the entreaties of his friends, he did indeed absent himself from masters’ meetings; but, otherwise, his presence was as much felt, his voice as often heard, as ever. No martyr has ever stood at the stake with a prouder or more defiant mien. Now a martyrdom is always an unpleasant business for others than the victim; and one of the spectators who felt the unpleasantness most acutely was Mr. Bent. Mr. Bent repudiated the title of sportsman, but he had scruples and susceptibilities of his own. As unacknowledged heir to Mr. Chowdler’s house he found his position a delicate one, and he hesitated to proclaim his right to the succession while Mr. Chowdler was so very much alive. It would have been comparatively easy to speak the word while the battle was still raging and the issue in doubt; but he had missed the psychological moment, and to speak it now, smacked too much of a mean triumph over a fallen foe. Therefore, when people wondered in his presence who would succeed to the house, he held his peace and felt a little like a boy who had committed an offence and fears to own up to it. The situation was particularly awkward, because it was high time that he should be making arrangements for moving in; and the holidays were short. His friend Plummer put a finger, inadvertently, one afternoon on the raw place and received a disagreeable shock. “I wonder,” he said, “who will get Chowdler’s house. It’s very tactful of Flaggon to keep it in abeyance; but he’ll _have_ to make the appointment soon--certainly before the end of Term.” “Perhaps it’ll be _me_,” said Mr. Bent, colouring slightly. “Impossible!” cried Mr. Plummer in a voice of genuine alarm. “You’re joking, I hope.” “Why impossible, pray?” asked Mr. Bent, in tones of unusual chilliness. “Why, because ...” replied Mr. Plummer irritably, “... it’s really very difficult to explain ... but of all people you’re the very last who ought to succeed Chowdler. Think what people would say!” “_What_ would they say?” asked Mr. Bent doggedly. The task of enlightening an obtuse friend as to what people are saying of him is a delicate one; and Mr. Plummer couldn’t help thinking that Bent was singularly and unexpectedly obtuse. “Well, of course,” he began, “it _has_ been said by ill-natured people--when you became a Flaggonite, you know, and seemed to be seeing a good deal of him, that.... Well, in fact, that you had an axe of your own to grind, and wanted----” “The women, I suppose,” interrupted Mr. Bent. “I expect so,” Mr. Plummer admitted.