f bluffly, "Yes, yes; I've
a hot temper, soon over," he had never, owing to the autocracy of
his position, had a chance of knowing the tenacity of his soul. So
accustomed and so able for many years to vent displeasure at once, he
did not himself know the wealth of his old English spirit, did not know
of what an ugly grip he was capable. He did not even know it at this
minute, conscious only of a sort of black wonder at this monstrous
conduct to a man in his position, doing his simple duty. The more he
reflected, the more intolerable did it seem that a woman like this Mrs.
Bellew should have the impudence to invoke the law of the land in her
favour a woman who was no better than a common baggage--a woman he had
seen kissing George Pendyce. To have suggested to Mr. Barter that there
was something pathetic in this black wonder of his, pathetic in the
spectacle of his little soul delivering its little judgments, stumbling
its little way along with such blind certainty under the huge heavens,
amongst millions of organisms as important as itself, would have
astounded him; and with every step he took the blacker became his
wonder, the more fixed his determination to permit no such abuse of
morality, no such disregard of Hussell Barter.

"You have been guilty of indelicacy!" This indictment had a wriggling
sting, and lost no venom from the fact that he could in no wise have
perceived where the indelicacy of his conduct lay. But he did not try to
perceive it. Against himself, clergyman and gentleman, the monstrosity
of the charge was clear. This was a point of morality. He felt no anger
against George; it was the woman that excited his just wrath. For so
long he had been absolute among women, with the power, as it were, over
them of life and death. This was flat immorality! He had never approved
of her leaving her husband; he had never approved of her at all! He
turned his steps towards the Firs.

From above the hedges the sleepy cows looked down; a yaffle laughed a
field or two away; in the sycamores, which had come out before their
time, the bees hummed. Under the smile of the spring the innumerable
life of the fields went carelessly on around that square black figure
ploughing along the lane with head bent down under a wide-brimmed hat.

George Pendyce, in a fly drawn by an old grey horse, the only vehicle
that frequented the station at Worsted Skeynes, passed him in the lane,
and leaned back to avoid observation. He had no