‘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 generally, it was one of those bits of human inconsistency over which the observer smiles, and which should be recommended to good people in search of arguments for the equality of men. After that little dialogue, Bob went home in a disagreeable temper. To begin with, his mood had been ruffled, for the landlady at his lodgings—the fourth to which he had removed this year—was ‘nasty’ about a week or two of unpaid rent, and a man on whom he had counted this evening for the payment of a debt was keeping out of his way. He found Pennyloaf sitting on the stairs with her two children, as usual; poor Pennyloaf had not originality enough to discover new expressions of misery, and that one bright idea of donning her best dress was a single instance of ingenuity. In obedience to Jane Snowdon, she kept herself and the babies and the room tolerably clean, but everything was done in the most dispirited way. ‘What are you kicking about here for?’ asked Bob impatiently. ‘That’s how that kid gets its cold—of course it is!—Ger out!’ The last remark was addressed to the elder child, who caught at his legs as he strode past. Bob was not actively unkind to the little wretches for whose being he was responsible; he simply occupied the natural position of unsophisticated man to children of that age, one of indifference, or impatience. The infants were a nuisance; no one desired their coming, and the older they grew the more expensive they were. It was a cold evening of October; Pennyloaf had allowed the fire to get very low (she knew not exactly where the next supply of coals was to come from), and her husband growled as he made a vain endeavour to warm his hands. ‘Why haven’t you got tea ready?’ he asked. ‘I couldn’t be sure as you was comin’, Bob; how could I? But I’ll soon get the kettle boilin’.’ ‘Couldn’t be sure as I was coming? Why, I’ve been back every night this week—except two or three.’ It was Thursday, but Bob meant nothing jocose. ‘Look here!’ he continued, fixing a surly eye upon her. ‘What do you mean by complaining about me to people? Just mind your own business. When was that girl Jane Snowdon here last?’ ‘Yesterday, Bob.’