"I am glad to see you desire to make amends for what occurred on Saturday.

You can leave the impositions on this table." "Please, sir, it's not that," said Merrison, hurriedly, alarmed at being suspected of anything like contrition.

"It's not that; we--" "You can leave the impositions on the table," said the doctor, sternly, turning at the same time to continue his conversation with Mr Parrett, which the arrival of the visitors had interrupted.
It was a sad blow for Willoughby, this! They had expected better things.

They had meant their act of self-devotion to be a crushing defiance to the Radical, and even a mild rebuke to the doctor himself.
But it had turned out neither.
Slowly and sorrowfully they filed past the table and laid their sacrifices thereon, and then departed, dejected and crestfallen.

The doctor, with his back turned, never noticed them, and no one had the hardihood to attempt further to attract his attention.
So ended the election episode at Willoughby.
"I hope you've enjoyed yourselves," said Crossfield to Tedbury the Limpet, that afternoon.