gers. For one thing, he brought back to her the
memory of days when she had possessed a home of her own, and had not
yet been soured by ill-hap; then again, Bower belonged to her own
class, for all his money saved up and his pomposities of manner. There
is a freemasonry between the members of the pure-blooded proletariat;
they are ever ready in recognition of each other, and their suspicion
of all above them, whether by rank or by nature, is a sense of the
utmost keenness. Mrs. Butterfield varied somewhat from the type,
inasmuch as she did not care to cringe before her superiors; but that
was an accident; in essentials of feeling she and Bower were at one.

The table was half covered with a dirty cloth, on which stood a loaf of
bread (plateless), a small dish ready to receive the fry, and a jug of
beer. In the midst of the newly painted and papered room, which seemed
ready to receive furniture of a more elegant kind than that of
working-class homes, these things had an incongruity.

'And how does the world use _you_, Mrs. Butterfield, ma'am?' Bower
asked, as he settled his bulky body on the small chair.

'I earn my bed and my victuals, Mr. Bower,' was the reply, as the old
woman stirred her hissing mess with a fork.

'And a thing to be proud of at your age, ma'am.'

From such friendly dialogue, Bower gradually turned the talk to
Egremont, of whom he spoke at first as a respected intimate.
Observation of his collocutor led him shortly to alter his tone a
little. When he had heard that books were already arriving, he remarked:

'That's as much as to say that you'll soon be turned out, Mrs.
Butterfield. Well, I call it hard at your age, ma'am. Now if Egremont
had acted like a gentleman and had offered _me_ to be librarian, you'd
still have kept your place here. I don't want to say disagreeable
things, but if ever there was a mean and indecent action, it was when
he passed over _me_ and gave the place to a stranger. Why, Mrs.
Butterfield, he has to thank _me_ for everything! But for _me_ he'd
never have had a soul to hear his lectures. Well, well, it don't
matter. And what do you think o' the young girl as is coming to keep
house here after you?'

Mrs. Butterfield was turning out her supper into the dish. She gave him
a peculiar look.

'When's she goin' to be wed?' was her question in reply.

'Next Monday.'

'And does the man as is goin' to marry her know as she comes here to
meet this young gent?'

'She comes