"Oh, I know you now," said Nugent, "You are from the upper world, a fair representative of the classes who set themselves up in judgment over common men."
"No," said Doane, assuming an injured air, "only an editor, whose kindly intent has been met here by rude insult."
"Take your intent and presence away," said Nugent, "and at once. We want neither. You and your kind stand well in the eyes of the world, but we refuse to bend beneath your judgment."
"Yet," said the editor, "you set up a tribunal of your own."
"Yes," said Ouida, "the tribunal of conscience, where we have had our trial, pronounced sentence, and for years have been paying to justice the penalty we owed."
"You refuse my aid?" said Doane.
"It was not sought; we will not accept it," said Nugent. "We prefer starvation to your pity."
"Then," said Doane, "let it not be pity, but a pure matter of business."
"We desire none with you," said Ouida. "This lodging is poor, but it is our own. Go, vent your spleen where it may be felt. We are beyond it. We have passed through the vale of agony. No shaft of scorn or ridicule can wound us more. Leave us, we would breathe the untainted air."
And as Doane went away from the presence of his intended victims, it crept through his narrow brain, that he had not accomplished much.
"I could not pierce the armor of their pride and devotion. I am an ass," said Doane to himself, and the next day's editorials were permeated with great bitterness.
