Let's be honest."
"No. I won't allow that," Ronder said quickly. "We're fighting no
personalities. Speaking for myself, there's no one I admire more in this
town than Brandon. I think him reactionary and opposed to new ideas, and a
dangerous influence here, but there's no personal feeling in any of this.
We've got to keep personalities out of this. There's something bigger than
our own likes and dislikes in this."
"Words! Words," said Foster angrily. "I hate Brandon. You hate him,
Ronder, for all you're so circumspect. It's true enough that we don't want
young Forsyth at Pybus, but it's truer still that we want to bring the
Archdeacon's pride down. And we're going to."
The atmosphere was electric. Rogers' thin and bony features were flushed
with pleasure at Foster's denunciation. Bentinck-Major rubbed his soft
hands one against the other and closed his eyes as though he were
determined to be a gentleman to the last; Martin sat upright in his chair,
his face puzzled, his gaze fixed upon Ronder; Ryle, the picture of nervous
embarrassment, glanced from one face to another, as though imploring every
one not to be angry with him--all these sharp words were certainly not his
fault.
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