ared little disposed to talk.

Luke Ackroyd was not infrequently in Bunce's room. These two discussed
religion and politics together, and their remarks on these subjects
lacked neither vigour nor perspicuity. Ye gods! how they went to the
root of things! Ackroyd had persevered in his pronounced Antinomianism;
he did not take life as 'hard' as his companion, and consequently was
not as sincere in his revolt, but he represented very fairly the modern
type of brain-endowed workman, who is from birth at issue with the
lingering old world. That is, he represented it intellectually; there
was, however, much in his character which does not mark the proletarian
as such. Essentially his nature was very gentle and ductile, and he had
strong affections. Probably he could not have told you, with any
approach to accuracy, how often he had been in love, or fancied himself
so, and for Ackroyd being in love was, to tell the truth, a matter of
vastly more importance than all the political and social and religious
questions in the world.

He and Totty were still on the terms of that compact which had
Christmas in view. His own part was discharged conscientiously; he
visited no public-houses and was steady at his work. In fact, he had
never had those tastes which bring a man to hopeless sottishness. More
than half his dissipation had come of that kind of vanity whereof young
gentlemen of the best families have by no means the monopoly. He liked
people to talk about him; he liked to know that it was deemed a pity
for such a clever young fellow to go to the dogs. Even in his
recklessness after the loss of Thyrza there was much of this element;
disappointment in love is known to make one interesting, and if Luke
could have brought on a mild fever, so that people could say he was in
danger of dying, it would probably not have displeased him. That was
over now. He persuaded himself that he was in love with Totty, and he
told himself daily how glad he was in the thought of marrying her
shortly after Christmas.

For all that, they quarrelled, he and she. It would not be easy to say
how many times they quarrelled and made it up again during the latter
half of the year. There was a certain unlikeness of temperament, which
perpetually made them think more of their difficulties in getting on
together than of the pleasure they received from each other's society.
Ackroyd frequently pondered on the question of how this matter would
arrange itself af