wished to have it thought.

"Winterbottom warrants it," he added, with a triumphant jerk of his
plump body.

"Then Winterbottom is either cheating or cheated. That is no
Morland; take my word for it. Was that all you wanted me for?"

Mr. Stark's good-nature was severely tried. Mental suffering had
made Glazzard worse than impolite; his familiar tone of authority on
questions of art had become too frankly contemptuous.

"You're out of sorts this morning," conjectured his legal friend.
"Let Morland be for the present. I had another reason for asking you
to call, but don't stay unless you like."

Glazzard looked round the office.

"Well?" he asked, more gently.

"Quarrier tells me you are going down to Polterham. Any special
reason?"

"Yes. But I can't talk about it."

"I was down there myself last Sunday. I talked politics with the
local wiseacres, and--do you know, it has made me think of you
ever since?"

"How so?"