“I hear no good of your goin’s on,” remarked Hewett, on a casual encounter in the street. “A married man ought to give up the kind of company as you keep.”
“I do no harm,” replied Bob, bluntly. “Has my wife been complaining to you?”
“I’ve nothing to do with her; it’s what I’m told.”
“By Kirkwood, I suppose? You’d better not have made up with him again, if he’s only making mischief.”
“No, I didn’t mean Kirkwood.”
And John went his way. Odd thing, was it not, that this embittered leveller should himself practise the very intolerance which he reviled in people of the upper world. For his refusal to recognise Pennyloaf he had absolutely no grounds, save—I use the words advisedly—an aristocratic prejudice. Bob had married deplorably beneath him; it was unpardonable, let the character of the girl be what it might. Of course you recognise the item in John Hewett’s personality which serves to explain this singular attitude. But, viewed
