"I have your letter, Arthur."

The rector bowed. He gave a start, but tried to conceal a gleam of
triumph.

Leonard ignored it and spoke on:--

"A gentleman, Arthur,--I mean any one trying to be a whole
gentleman,--is a very helpless creature, nowadays, in matters of this
sort."

He looked formidable, and as he lightly grasped a chair at his side it
seemed about to be turned into a weapon.

"The old thing once called satisfaction," he continued, "is something
one can no longer either ask or offer, in any form. He can neither rail,
nor strike, nor spellbind, nor challenge, nor lampoon, nor prosecute."

"Nearly as helpless as a clergyman," said Arthur.

"Almost," replied the visitor. "No, there is no more satisfaction in any
of those things, for him, than if he were all a clergyman is supposed to
be. There is none even in saying this, to you, here, now, and I'm not
here to say it. Neither am I here to vindicate myself--no, nor yet
Isabel--with professions or arguments to you; I might as well argue with
a forest fire."

"Quite as well. What are you here for?"