"You can go!" she announced. "We only entertain gentlemen here." Pettigrew took up his hat: Mould rose and did likewise. The rest of the company fidgeted uncomfortably in their seats. It was a particularly unpleasant moment. "Good-night, Mr. Baxter," said Pettigrew, moving towards the door, which Miss Weeks was obligingly holding wide open for him. "Sometimes I wonder," he sniggered, turning again, "whether you are quite as ripe a scholar as you would have some of the less educated people in this town believe." "Ripe? He's over-ripe--rotten!" announced Mould confidently. Mr. Baxter rose suddenly from his armchair. "Gentlemen," he said, "you insult me in my own house. It is your privilege to do so. You are my guests--" I thought it time to interfere. I crossed the room, gently lowered my old friend into his seat again, and turned to the company. They were all on their feet by this time. "Now look here," I announced, in what I have always hoped is a breezy voice, "you people really must keep your debates academic. Here you are, all flying straight up in the air over some twopenny-ha'penny point of scholarship, and exciting one of my most valued patients"--I patted Baxter solemnly on the shoulder--"to an attack of insomnia! You mustn't do it, you know--especially just now!" "What do you mean, just now?" asked Ada quickly. She shot an apprehensive glance at her grandfather's drawn features. "I mean this. You know the opening of Crake Hall takes place on Saturday?" Every one looked up, surprised at the diversion. "Yes: what of it?" said Pettigrew. "You know that an Address of Welcome and Grateful Thanks is to be read to Mr. Crake by a representative citizen of the town?" "Yes," said Pettigrew again; and he said it with an intensity which gave him away badly. "Well, Mr. Baxter here--our very dear and esteemed friend Mr. Baxter"--I spoke the words deliberately, and felt the old shoulder suddenly stiffen under my hand--"has been unanimously selected by the Council"--I breathed a prayer that the Rector might not have failed me--"to read that Address! That is why I am thoroughly angry with you all for tiring him out with your conundrums. He is not a young man, or a strong man; and I want to have him in first-class trim for his appearance on Saturday. Home to bed, all of you!" "Outside!" commanded Miss Weeks; and shepherded the entire company into the passage, closing the door behind her. Baxter and I were left alone. I took my stand on the worn hearth-rug, with my back to the fire, lingering over the lighting of my pipe with the uneasy self-consciousness of the Englishman who has just participated in a scene. My old friend's thin hands were extended upon the arms of his chair; his head was sunk upon his breast. I decided to say something cheerful. "Well," I remarked, "I think the Council's invitation came to you at a very appropriate moment."