When buying his ticket he had let fall a guarded word or two about the
nature of his errand, and from the booking-office the news had flown
up and down both sides of the station, round the yard, and even into
the signal cabins. "See Mr. Dale?" "Mr. Dale!" "There's Mr. Dale,
going to London for an interview with the Postmaster-General."
Mr. Melling, the Baptist minister, took off his hat and bowed gravely;
Mrs. Norton, the vicar's wife, smilingly stopped Mavis and spoke as if
she had been addressing a social equal; then they received greetings
from old Mr. Bates, the corn merchant, and from young Richard Bates,
his swaggering good-for-nothing son. And then, as passengers gathered
more thickly, it became quite like a public reception. "Ma'arnin',
sir." "Good day, Mr. Dale." "I hope I see you well, sir."
Mavis got him away from all this company just before the train came
in, and made a last appeal to him. Would he recollect what the deputy
had said about eating that ugly dish which is commonly known as humble
pie?
But at the mention of Mr. Ridgett's advice Dale displayed a slight
flare of irascibility.
"Let Mr. Ridgett mind his own business," he said shortly, "and not
bother himself about mine.
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