The girl was not hard-hearted, as she had been called. Any social arrogance which she expressed was more an acquired trick of thought and speech than a calm persuasion. She was not a fool, yet she nourished a vague impression that it might be a Christian, patriotic duty to do something for the outcast and forlorn—that a troop of soldiers or a crew of sailors called for care from their leaders; while she held the notion that millers and bakers, with tradespeople in general, even though they were convicted of gross self-indulgence, and that coarse materialism which is the deadly enemy of a higher life—of all spirituality, might very well be left to take care of themselves. ‘Will Oliver Constable’s mission have any success?’ Catherine speculated, with mild, idle curiosity. ‘Will the great vulgar consent to be refined?’ ‘I should think not,’ said Mrs. Hilliard, decidedly. ‘If I were one of them, I should hate to be poked up and enlightened. After all, I have a strong suspicion I am one of them, with just an outer coating of polish, the result of circumstances,’ Mrs. Hilliard announced impenitently, with a keen perception of the fun of taking guilt to herself. It was like Catherine not to contradict the assertion beyond a certain point. ‘You don’t speak fine language like one of the Miss Polleys, or run away, after the fashion of some of the others, when they have come into the shop in their morning deshabille, and are scared by the entrance of a customer belonging to the upper ranks. You are not slovenly, smart, and splendid by turns. You don’t giggle at every word and think it witty to be rude to men, clenching your rudeness with an emphatic “There!” as I have heard the Miss Polleys do when I have gone to their shop with some of Reddock’s commissions on market-day. You don’t spend your evenings sauntering up and down the street, or paying perpetual visits to your cronies.’ ‘But I am a very prosaic, commonplace person for all that,’ said Mrs. Hilliard, demurely. ‘You are sensible I have no sympathy with high heroics or “high faluting” of any kind—my nature is pitched in too low a key. The rest is accident. You forget that I am twice as old as the youngest Miss Polley—almost old enough to be her mother—not to speak of the cares I have gone through. I have no occasion to walk out after dinner, or shop-shutting, as it may be, since the whole day is mine, and you must admit I make good use of the hours after luncheon. I believe I am the best visitor in Friarton. Oliver Constable ought to include me in his mission, or get up a private one for my special benefit. It is not fair to my needs, it is impertinent to the tradespeople, to omit me in his benevolent efforts. But perhaps he would prefer to reform you, withdrawing you from your books and converting you into a social animal with a due regard to your neighbour’s welfare;’ as she spoke, Mrs. Hilliard glanced quickly at Catherine, but the glance fell without effect like blank shot.