CHAPTER XVII.
LYDIA BELCHER INTERVENES.
The effect of my words astounded me.

As a regiment holding itself bravely against an attack in front will suddenly melt at an unexpected shout on its flank and collapse without striking another blow, so Mr.Whitmore collapsed.

His jaw fell; his eyes wildly searched the dim corners of the room; his hands gripped the edge of the table; he dropped slowly into the chair behind him, dragging the tablecloth askew as he sank.
With that I felt Mr.Rogers's grip on my shoulder--no gentle one, I can assure you.

He, too, had been gazing at the curate, but now stared down, searching my face.
"You've hit him, by George! Quick, boy!--have you learnt more than you told me last night?
Or is it only guessing ?" "Ask him," said I, "why he married Miss Isabel." "Married! Isabel Brooks married!"-- Mr.Rogers's eyes, wide and round, turned slowly from me and fastened themselves on the curate.
"Not to _him_, but to Archibald Plinlimmon.

Mr.Whitmore married them privately.