“Then he told you?” retorts Mrs. Lammle, who again has saved her eyes while listening, and uses them with strong effect while speaking.
“Yes.”
“It is strange that he should have told you the truth,” says Mrs. Lammle, seriously pondering. “Pray where did a circumstance so very extraordinary happen?”
Twemlow hesitates. He is shorter than the lady as well as weaker, and, as she stands above him with her hardened manner and her well-used eyes, he finds himself at such a disadvantage that he would like to be of the opposite sex.
“May I ask where it happened, Mr. Twemlow? In strict confidence?”
“I must confess,” says the mild little gentleman, coming to his answer by degrees, “that I felt some compunctions when Mr. Fledgeby mentioned it. I must admit that I could not regard myself in an agreeable light. More particularly, as Mr. Fledgeby did, with great civility, which I could not feel that I deserved from him, render me the same service that you had entreated him to render you.”
It is a part of the true nobility of the poor gentleman’s soul to say this last sentence. “Otherwise,” he has reflected, “I shall assume the superior position of having no difficulties of my own, while I know of hers. Which would be mean, very mean.”
“Was Mr. Fledgeby’s advocacy as effectual in your case as in ours?” Mrs. Lammle demands.
“As ineffectual.”