Even its quaint phrases and artless attempts at conciliation failed to raise a sneer on his lips.

Something told him it was the hardest hit yet, and that out of the mouths of these honest babes and sucklings his confusion had reached its climax.
If Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote snapped their fingers at him in the face of all Templeton, who else would care a fig about him?
The one grain of comfort was in the possession of the secret of Mr Webster's pencil, to which Pledge clung as his last and winning card.
How to make the most of it was the important question Pledge decided not to be impatient.

Wednesday was to be the great election for the "Sociables," and, if our heroes' names appeared on the list, as rumour already said they would, his blow would tell best if held over till then.
So he sat down, and acknowledged the "Firm's" note as follows:-- My Dear Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote,--Pray do as you like.
Promises are never made to be kept by "Select Sociables" of your high character.

I do not understand what you mean about your row.

What row are you in?
_Are_ you in a row?
You don't call that little matter that I am expecting to talk to the "Sociables" about on Wednesday a row, do you?
Please give my kind regards to Georgie Heathcote, and tell him he will need to beg hard before I trouble him to lay my cloth.