“I like him,” said Mr. Brownlow--“he knows what he has to do and--he does it. I like a man who does that--it gives one confidence for the time to come.” “Yes,” said Jack. “I never cared for him, sir, as you know. He is not my ideal of a clerk--but that is nothing; only I rather think Wrinkell has changed his opinion lately. The young fellow gets on well enough--but there is a difference. I suppose that sort of extra punctuality and virtue can only last a certain time.” “I dare say these are very fine notions, Jack,” said his father; “but I am not quite such an accomplished man of the world, I suppose, as if I had been brought up at Eton. I believe in virtue lasting a long time. You must bear with my old-fashioned prejudices.” This Mr. Brownlow said in a way which puzzled Jack, for he was not a man given to sneers. “Of course, if you take it like that, sir, I have not another word to say,” said the young man, and he went away feeling bitterly hostile to Powys, who seemed to be the cause of it all. He said to himself that to be snubbed on account of a clerk was a new experience, and lost himself in conjectures as to the cause of this unexplained partiality--“a fellow who is going to the bad and all,” Jack said to himself; and his feeling was somewhat vindictive, and he did not feel so sorry as he ought to have done that Powys was going to the bad. It seemed on the whole a kind of retribution. Mr. Wrinkell himself had been sent for to Brownlows on various occasions, but it was not an honor that had been accorded to any of the clerks; and now this young fellow, whose appearance and conduct had both begun to be doubtful, was to have the privilege. Jack did not comprehend it; uneasy unexpressed suspicions came into his mind, all utterly wide of the mark, yet not the less uncomfortable. The mare was a comfort to him as she went off in one of her long dashes, without ever taking breath, like an arrow down the avenue; and so was the momentary glimpse of a little face at the window, to which he took off his hat; but notwithstanding these consolations, he was irritated and somewhat disturbed. On account of a cad! He had no right to give such a title to his father’s favorite; but still it must be allowed that it was a little hard. “Who is Powys?” said Sara, when her brother was gone. “And why are you angry, papa? You are cross, you know, and that is not like you. I am afraid you must be ill.” “Cross, am I?” said Mr. Brownlow. “I suppose I am not quite well--I told you I had a bad night.” “Yes--but what has Powys to do with it? and who is he?” said Sara looking into his face.