and was soon receiving that
generous applause which is a part of the profound ceremonialism of the
working classes. As he made his way to the door three people stopped
him, and he answered them heartily enough, but with an air of hurry
which he would not have dreamed of showing to people of his own class.
One was a little schoolmistress who told him with a sort of feverish
meekness that she was troubled because an Ethical Lecturer had said that
Dickens was not really Progressive; but she thought he was Progressive;
and surely he was Progressive. Of what being Progressive was she had
no more notion than a whale. The second person implored him for a
subscription to some soup kitchen or cheap meal; and his refined
features sharpened; for this, like literature, was a matter of principle
with him. "Quite the wrong method," he said, shaking his head and
pushing past. "Nothing any good but the Boyg system." The third
stranger, who was male, caught him on the step as he came out into the
snow and starlight; and asked him point blank for money. It was a
part of Vernon-Smith's principles that all such persons are prosperous
impostors; and like a true mystic he held to his principles in defiance
of his five senses, which told him that the night was freezing and the
man very thin and weak. "If you come to the Settlement between four and
five on Friday week," he said, "inquiries will be made." The man stepped
back into the snow with a not ungraceful gesture as of apology; he had
frosty silver hair, and his lean face, though in shadow, seemed to wear
something like a smile. As Vernon-Smith stepped briskly into the street,
the man stooped down as if to do up his bootlace. He was, however,
guiltless of any such dandyism; and as the young philanthropist stood
pulling on his gloves with some particularity, a heavy snowball was
suddenly smashed into his face. He was blind for a black instant; then
as some of the snow fell, saw faintly, as in a dim mirror of ice or
dreamy crystal, the lean man bowing with the elegance of a dancing
master, and saying amiably, "A Christmas box." When he had quite cleared
his face of snow the man had vanished.

For three burning minutes Cyril Vernon-Smith was nearer to the people
and more their brother than he had been in his whole high-stepping
pedantic existence; for if he did not love a poor man, he hated one. And
you never really regard a labourer as your equal until you can quarrel
with him. "Dirty cad!"