A brief but still hot discussion followed before each person wrote “Tyke” or “Farebrother” on a piece of paper and slipped it into a glass tumbler; and in the meantime Mr. Bulstrode saw Lydgate enter.
“I perceive that the votes are equally divided at present,” said Mr. Bulstrode, in a clear biting voice. Then, looking up at Lydgate—
“There is a casting-vote still to be given. It is yours, Mr. Lydgate: will you be good enough to write?”
“The thing is settled now,” said Mr. Wrench, rising. “We all know how Mr. Lydgate will vote.”
“You seem to speak with some peculiar meaning, sir,” said Lydgate, rather defiantly, and keeping his pencil suspended.
“I merely mean that you are expected to vote with Mr. Bulstrode. Do you regard that meaning as offensive?”
“It may be offensive to others. But I shall not desist from voting