CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Shakespeare's Master
Lord Loveland's habit was to give a wide berth to common people, if Chance, the democrat, threw him near them, with the exception of "Tommies," who for him as a soldier were a class by themselves—a class in which he recognised humanity that touched his own. He did not love ugliness or shabbiness, which as like as not meant microbes; but he had come down so near to the depths of reality tonight, that he had no sense of his own superiority, or inclination to shrink away when the man's hands touched his as they took the rescued animal.
"I came along in the nick of time," said Loveland, "and I like dogs. I thought I could just do it, and I did."
"'Twas fine, all the same," repeated the dog's master. "I ain't much of a public speaker, but I guess you know how I feel, all right. 'Twould 'a pretty near put me out o' business if——" He did not finish his sentence, but the tenderness with which he tucked into his pocket the wretched little apology for a dog made further words superfluous.
Loveland, always polite to inferiors, unless overmastered by rage, looked at the bench as if it were the first comer's property.
"If you don't mind, I'll sit down," he said.
The shabby one laughed. "I ain't paid for my lodgings," said he, "and if I had, you'd be welcome—after what you done. You can have me for a doormat if you like."
"Thanks," said Loveland, laughing, too. "I don't need a doormat. If it was an overcoat, now——"