believed that the book might possibly enjoy a certain vogue, but he trusted that it would quickly be forgotten. To stir up talk about the thing, by accusing the Archdeacon of having written it, was what he never expected to be anxious to do. Let it come out and then let oblivion snatch it—that was his desire.
No sooner, therefore, was his typescript finished than he carried the manuscript round to the Vicarage and delivered it up to its author, who lost no time in reducing it, with Dunkle's enthusiastic aid, to a heap of ashes. From this burning Dunkle derived great pleasure. "If only," he thought, "we could have done this three months ago! But then," he reflected, "I should not be going to marry Chloë next Wednesday."
Yes, the wedding was as near as that; for all this time the preparations had
