“I shan’t do anything of the kind,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, with a catching of the breath. “I’m here defending that young lady.” “You’ve done her enough mischief, I should think,” said Widgery, suddenly walking towards the dining-room, and closing the door behind him, leaving Dangle and Phipps with Hoopdriver. “Clear!” said Phipps, threateningly. “I shall go and sit out in the garden,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, with dignity. “There I shall remain.” “Don’t make a row with him,” said Dangle. And Mr. Hoopdriver retired, unassaulted, in almost sobbing dignity. XXXIX. So here is the world with us again, and our sentimental excursion is over. In the front of the Rufus Stone Hotel conceive a remarkable collection of wheeled instruments, watched over by Dangle and Phipps in grave and stately attitudes, and by the driver of a stylish dogcart from Ringwood. In the garden behind, in an attitude of nervous prostration, Mr. Hoopdriver was seated on a rustic seat. Through the open window of a private sitting-room came a murmur of voices, as of men and women in conference. Occasionally something that might have been a girlish sob. “I fail to see what status Widgery has,” says Dangle, “thrusting himself in there.” “He takes too much upon himself,” said Phipps. “I’ve been noticing little things, yesterday and to-day,” said Dangle, and stopped. “They went to the cathedral together in the afternoon.” “Financially it would be a good thing for her, of course,” said Dangle, with a gloomy magnanimity. He felt drawn to Phipps now by the common trouble, in spite of the man’s chequered legs. “Financially it wouldn’t be half bad.” “He’s so dull and heavy,” said Phipps.