On leaving the factory he parted from Mary, as he had an errand in the town, and told her he would be home in half an hour for dinner. He did his errand, and took his way home. And as he arrived at his own gate there came out from it a man whom Myles recognised as a person to whom he bore no friendly feelings. He was named James Hoyle, and was by trade a small shopkeeper, in the stationery and evangelical-religious-book line: occasionally he acted as a preacher of a denunciatory and inflammatory description; always he was a missionary--so, at least, he said. To him and to his style of preaching and piety Myles had a most thorough dislike; he believed him to be a hypocrite, and in this case his dislike was well grounded enough, and founded on facts. ‘Good morning, Myles. The Lord bless you!’ observed Mr. Hoyle, holding out a dingy, fat hand. No lowest scum of the Levites, of whatever section, whatever persuasion, could have looked, thought Myles, sleeker, or more as if his sleekness were an ill-gotten gain. Out of tune as Myles was with all the world, this apparition and his tone of familiarity was not of a kind likely to restore harmony to the jarring notes of his life’s music. Drawing up his proud figure to its utmost height, and looking with his contemptuous eyes down upon the pudgy individual who addressed him, he said, ‘Good morning. I’ll thank you not to make so free with my name. Who gave you leave to call me “Myles”?’ He ignored the outstretched hand, having an objection to touching what he considered to be both literally and metaphorically dirty fingers. Hoyle looked up at him, and his eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve been taking spiritual counsel with your mother, my dear young friend. A sweet, precious soul! It is a privilege to converse with her; she teaches one so much.’ ‘Does she? It’s a pity but she could teach you to be sober and honest,’ said Myles, with distinct enunciation and scornful mien, holding himself somewhat aloof from Mr. Hoyle. ‘Anyhow,’ he continued, ‘until you’ve managed it--the soberness and honesty, I mean (you needn’t look as if you didn’t know. I saw where you came out of at eleven o’clock on Saturday night)--till then, you’ll please give this house a clear berth, and my mother may take her spiritual counsel--if she wants it--with a different sort of person from you.’ He was about to turn in at the gate, but, with his hand on the latch, was arrested by an expression on the face of the other. ‘The day will come, young man, when you will wish you had treated me--me, of all people--with more respect,’ said he with a smile, for he had a flexible face, which appeared to lend itself even more easily to smiles than to other expressions. Yet the smile was an evil one.