"Rare good chap I know—takes my first floor front room. Masterson says it's always the wife pitches the key. Always. There's no social differences—till women come in."
"Ah!" said Kipps profoundly. "You don't know."
Sid shook his head. "Fancy!" he reflected, "Art Kipps! … Twelve 'Undred a Year!"
Kipps tried to bridge that opening gulf. "Remember the Hurons, Sid?"
"Rather," said Sid.
"Remember that wreck?"
"I can smell it now—sort of sour smell."
Kipps was silent for a moment with reminiscent eyes on Sid's still troubled face.
"I say, Sid, 'ow's Ann?"
"She's all right," said Sid.
"Where is she now?"
"In a place … Ashford."
"Oh!"
Sid's face had become a shade sulkier than before.
"The fact is," he said, "we don't get on very well together. I don't hold with service. We're common people, I suppose, but I don't like it. I don't see why a sister of mine should wait at other people's tables. No. Not even if they got Twelve 'Undred a Year."
Kipps tried to change the point of application. "Remember 'ow you came out once when we were racing here? … She didn't run bad for a girl."
And his own words raised an image brighter than
