Such was Lewis's reflections when he found Wratislaw waiting for him in
the Etterick dogcart when he emerged from a meeting in Gledsmuir. He
had now enjoyed ten days of it, and he was heartily tired. His throat
was sore with much speaking, his mind was barren with thinking on the
unthinkable, and his spirits were dashed with a bitter sense of
futility. He had honestly done his best. So far his conscience was
clear; but as he reviewed the past in detail, his best seemed a very
shoddy compromise. It was comfort to see the rugged face of Wratislaw
again, though his greeting was tempered by mistrust. The great man had
refused to speak for him and left him to fight his own battles;
moreover, he feared the judgment of the old warrior on his conduct of
the fight. He was acutely conscious of the joints in his armour, but he
had hoped to have decently cloaked them from others. When he heard the
first words, "Well, Lewie, my son, you have been making a mess of it,"
his heart sank.
"I am sorry," he said. "But how?"
"How? Why, my dear chap, you have no grip. You have let the thing get
out of hand. I heard your speech to-night. It was excellent, very
clever, a beautiful piece of work, but worse than useless for your
purpose. You forget the sort of man you are fighting. Oh, I have been
following the business carefully, and I felt bound to come down to keep
you in order.
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