Oliver was wondering why he should feel any particular pleasure in contemplating the ducks wriggling their short necks with delight, rolling about like ships at sea, quivering their tail-tufts of feathers, making rushes to snatch the beaded maroon morsel, each duck from his neighbour, at last gobbling down the mulberry with an intensity of relish which in its breadth of display was farcical in the extreme. But Oliver did find so much satisfaction in the spectacle that he was tempted to propose to take Sally Pope’s office out of her hands, and feed the ducks from their basket of mill refuse every morning. They would soon learn to know his step and voice as they knew Sally’s. Pooh! it was all egotism, to be gratified by a duck’s recognition. It was a thread of vanity which in Rousseau reached the diseased pitch of imagining that the sparrows were chattering jibes at him. But how much more lovable, after all, if less respectable, was a vain man or woman than your Lucifer or Luciferina who made a boast of his or her proud indifference! Oliver was aware that he had a sneaking fondness for approbation. He would have liked Ted Green and every hulking hobble-de-hoy about the mill, as well as Fan and Sally Pope with her subordinates, to have a real regard for him and trust in him. He would have liked old Jim Hull and the men in the bakehouse to believe that he meant them well, and would serve them no less than himself, if he could. It was a weakness of course, and all that he was likely to get for his pains, was that everybody would incline to suspect him of being a humbug where he was not a fool, and no one would understand that he was setting himself, according to his light, to be a good citizen, though the effort in his case went in some respects against the grain.