Well, sir;--yes, sir; it is a little hard. But, you see, sir,
her Grace meant the best. Her Grace did mean the best, no doubt.
It may be, sir, there was a little misunderstanding;--a little
misunderstanding at the Castle, sir." Then Mr. Sprugeon retired, and
Lopez understood that he was to see nothing more of the ironmonger.

Of course there was nothing for him now but to retire;--to shake the
dust off his feet and get out of Silverbridge as quickly as he could.
But his friends had all deserted him and he did not know how to
retire. He had paid L500, and he had a strong opinion that a portion
at least of the money should be returned to him. He had a keen sense
of ill-usage, and at the same time a feeling that he ought not to run
out of the borough like a whipt dog, without showing his face to any
one. But his strongest sensation at this moment was one of hatred
against Arthur Fletcher. He was sure that Arthur Fletcher would be
the new member. He did not put the least trust in Mr. Du Boung. He
had taught himself really to think that Fletcher had insulted him
by writing to his wife, and that a further insult had been offered
to him by that meeting in the street. He had told his wife that he
would ask Fletcher to give up the borough, and that he would make
that request with a horsewhip in his hand. It was too late now to
say anything of the borough, but it might not be too late for the
horsewhip. He had a great desire to make good that threat as far as
the horsewhip was concerned,--having an idea that he would thus lower
Fletcher in his wife's eyes. It was not that he was jealous,--not
jealous according to the ordinary meaning of the word. His wife's
love to himself had been too recently given and too warmly maintained
for such a feeling as that. But there was a rancorous hatred in his
heart against the man, and a conviction that his wife at any rate
esteemed the man whom he hated. And then would he not make his
retreat from the borough with more honour if before he left he could
horsewhip his successful antagonist? We, who know the feeling of
Englishmen generally better than Mr. Lopez did, would say--certainly
not. We would think that such an incident would by no means redound
to the credit of Mr. Lopez. And he himself, probably, at cooler
moments, would have seen the folly of such an idea. But anger about
the borough had driven him mad, and now in his wretchedness the
suggestion had for him a certain charm. The man had o