“Wants to see me, does he? He can go on wanting. I'm sick of his interfering. A fat lot he's ever done to help me! And with his position and friends he could have helped me--instead of that he gives me his advice. Truth is, Jehane, he doesn't want to see us climb; he'd rather be the patron of the family. With the best intentions in the world, he's out to put a spoke in my wheel. Oh, I know him!--If he's so anxious for information, he can come here to get it.” While he spoke he scrutinized his wife, judging the effect of his blustering independence. She was suspicious of some hidden knowledge; he felt it. Something had been said behind his back at Topbury--something derogatory. Could Barrington have heard already. Pressing down the ashes in the bowl of his pipe, he struck a match. Jehane was between himself and the door; he wondered whether he could slip past her and make his exit if things became unpleasant. He detested being cornered; he could be so much braver when the means of escape lay behind him. Meanwhile, it seemed good policy to continue talking. “I don't like the way they treat you at Topbury; you always come home down-hearted. There's too much condescension. Nan overdoes it when she tries to be kind. The rich relation attitude! It riles me. When she makes you a present it's always a dress--might just as well tell you to your face that you're shabby. And last Christmas, sending Peter's cast-off clothes to Eustace! Thank God, we're not paupers and never shall be!” As he worked himself into a passion Jehane eyed him somberly. The everlasting pipe, dangling from his mouth, annoyed her immensely. His trousers, bagging at the knees, and his pockets, stuffed with rubbish, were perpetual eyesores; she hated his slack appearance. Other men with his income at least attained neatness. It was not that he spared money on his clothes----. She caught herself comparing him with Barrington--Barrington whose tidy body was the outward sign of his well-ordered mind. Her husband went on talking and her irritation took a new direction. “I'll bet a fiver what they said when you told 'em. 'My dearest, if it _could_ only happen'--that's Nan. 'Ah yes! Humph! sand at Sandport! We must talk this over before he decides'--that's Barrington. We can guess what his advice'll amount to, can't we, old Duchess?” It was safe to venture the endearment now. If they had nothing else in common, they were partners in their animosities. When running down an enemy together, he could dare to express his affection for her; his way of doing this was to call her _Duchess_. At other times she would brush him aside with, “Don't be silly, Ocky.” She often called him “silly,” treating any demonstration as tawdry sentimentality. She had no idea how deeply it wounded.