Barrin' my cough, and my rupture, and this 'ere
affliction"--he passed his hand over his face--"I 've nothing to
complain of; everybody has somethink, it seems. I'm a wonder for my age,
I think."

Shelton, for all his pity, would have given much to laugh.

"Seventy-two!" he said; "yes, a great age. You remember the country when
it was very different to what it is now?"

"Ah!" said the old butler, "there was gentry then; I remember them
drivin' down to Newmarket (my native place, sir) with their own horses.
There was n't so much o' these here middle classes then. There was more,
too, what you might call the milk o' human kindness in people then--none
o' them amalgamated stores, every man keepin' his own little shop; not
so eager to cut his neighbour's throat, as you might say. And then look
at the price of bread! O dear! why, it is n't a quarter what it was!"

"And are people happier now than they were then?" asked Shelton.

The old butler sucked his pipe.

"No," he answered, shaking his old head; "they've lost the contented
spirit. I see people runnin' here and runnin' there, readin' books,
findin' things out; they ain't not so self-contented as they were."

"Is that possible?" thought Shelton.

"No," repeated the old man, again sucking at his pipe, and this time
blowing out a lot of smoke; "I don't see as much happiness about, not
the same look on the faces. 'T isn't likely. See these 'ere motorcars,
too; they say 'orses is goin' out"; and, as if dumbfounded at his own
conclusion, he sat silent for some time, engaged in the lighting and
relighting of his pipe.

The girl at the far end stirred, cleared her throat, and settled down
again; her movement disengaged a scent of frowsy clothes. The policeman
had approached and scrutinised these ill-assorted faces; his glance was
jovially contemptuous till he noticed Shelton, and then was modified by
curiosity.

"There's good men in the police," the aged butler said, when the
policeman had passed on--"there's good men in the police, as good men as
you can see, and there 's them that treats you like the dirt--a dreadful
low class of man. Oh dear, yes! when they see you down in the world,
they think they can speak to you as they like; I don't give them no
chance to worry me; I keeps myself to myself, and speak civil to all the
world. You have to hold the candle to them; for, oh dear! if they 're
crossed--some of them--they 're a dreadful unscrup'lous lot of men!"

"