r of the candidature was of course trivial.
But Lopez who had, as the reader may remember, made some threat about
a horsewhip, had come to a resolution of a very different nature. He
put his arms a-kimbo, resting his hands on his hips, and altogether
declined the proffered civility. "You had better walk on," he said,
and then stood, scowling, on the spot till the other should pass by.
Fletcher looked at him for a moment, then bowed and passed on. At
least a dozen men saw what had taken place, and were aware that Mr.
Lopez had expressed his determination to quarrel personally with Mr.
Fletcher, in opposition to Mr. Fletcher's expressed wish for amity.
And before they had gone to bed that night all the dozen knew the
reason why. Of course there was some one then at Silverbridge clever
enough to find out that Arthur Fletcher had been in love with Miss
Wharton, but that Miss Wharton had lately been married to Mr. Lopez.
No doubt the incident added a pleasurable emotion to the excitement
caused by the election at Silverbridge generally. A personal quarrel
is attractive everywhere. The expectation of such an occurrence will
bring together the whole House of Commons. And of course this quarrel
was very attractive in Silverbridge. There were some Fletcherites
and Lopezites in the quarrel; as there were also Du Boungites, who
maintained that when gentlemen could not canvass without quarrelling
in the streets they were manifestly unfit to represent such a borough
as Silverbridge in Parliament;--and that therefore Mr. Du Boung
should be returned.

Mr. Gresham was in the town that day, though not till after the
occurrence, and Fletcher could not avoid speaking of it. "The man
must be a cur," said Gresham.

"It would make no difference in the world to me," said Arthur,
struggling hard to prevent signs of emotion from showing themselves
in his face, "were it not that he has married a lady whom I have long
known and whom I greatly esteem." He felt that he could hardly avoid
all mention of the marriage, and yet was determined that he would say
no word that his brother would call "howling."

"There has been no previous quarrel, or offence?" asked Gresham.

"None in the least." When Arthur so spoke he forgot altogether the
letter he had written; nor, had he then remembered it, would he have
thought it possible that that letter should have given offence. He
had been the sufferer, not Lopez. This man had robbed him of his
happiness; a