His friend, a person of good manners, was a little cross. “We’ve had him offended now, and I don’t blame him. You should have told me. I should never have come. It’s such rustic manners, to break into a person’s Club and preach things he hates. I could tell he hated it, by the look in his eye. He kept the other end of the room, the way he wouldn’t break out at me and say anything ferocious. No, I’m not coming to look for him; I wouldn’t dare look him in the face; you can go by yourself. You’ve fairly let me in, Oliver. I hate being rude to the wrong side, it gives them such an advantage. They’re rude enough to us, as a rule, to do for the two. _I_ don’t want to have anything to do with his little Radical Club; if he wants to keep it to himself and his Radical friends, he’s welcome.” “You’re talking nonsense,” Eddy said. “Did it behave like a Radical club to-night?” “It did not. Which is exactly why Datcherd has every reason to be annoyed. Well, you can tell him from me that it was no one’s fault but your own. Good-night.” He departed, more in anger than in sorrow--(it had really been rather fun to-night, though rude)--and Eddy went to find Datcherd. But he didn’t find Datcherd. He was told that Datcherd had left the Club and gone home. His friend’s remark came back to him. “He kept the other end of the room, the way he wouldn’t break out at me and say anything ferocious.” Was that what Datcherd was doing to him, or was he tired after his journey? Eddy hoped for the best, but felt forebodings. Datcherd certainly had not looked cordial or cheerful. The way he had looked had disappointed and rather hurt the Club. They felt that another expression, after three months absence, would have been more suitable. After all, for pleasantness of demeanour, Mr. Datcherd, even at the best of times (which this, it seemed, hardly was) wasn’t a patch on Mr. Oliver.