Fancies! Fancies! Really Brandon must attend to his business, this
business of Pybus and Forsyth, which in a week now was to be settled. He
talked to himself as he turned the papers over. He had seen the Bishop,
and Ryle (more or less persuaded), and Bentinck-Major (dark horse, never
could be sure of him), Foster, Rogers...Foster? Foster? Had he seen
Foster? Why did the mention of that name suddenly commence the unveiling
for him of a scene upon which, he must not look? The crossing the bridge,
up the hill, at the turnstile, paying your shilling...no, no, no
farther. And Bentinck-Major! That man laughed at him! Positively he dared,
when a year ago he would have bent down and wiped the dust off his shoes!
Positively!
That man! That worm! That mean, sycophantic...He was beginning to get
angry. He must not get angry. That's what Puddifoot had said, that had
been the one thing that old Puddifoot had said correctly. He must not get
angry, not even with--Ronder.
At the mention of that name something seemed to stir in the room, some one
to move closer. Brandon's heart began to race round like a pony in a
paddock.
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