“Certainly you will not be asked that by me,” said Mr. Traveller, “for I have not the slightest desire to know.”
“You are an uncouth man,” said Mr. Mopes the Hermit.
“You are another,” said Mr. Traveller.
The Hermit, who was plainly in the habit of overawing his visitors with the novelty of his filth and his blanket and skewer, glared at his present visitor in some discomfiture and surprise: as if he had taken aim at him with a sure gun, and his piece had missed fire.
“Why do you come here at all?” he asked, after a pause.
“Upon my life,” said Mr. Traveller, “I was made to ask myself that very question only a few minutes ago—by a Tinker too.”
As he glanced towards the gate in saying it, the Hermit glanced in that direction likewise.
“Yes. He is lying on his back in the sunlight outside,” said Mr, Traveller, as if he had been asked concerning the man, “and he won’t come in; for he says—and really very reasonably—‘What should I come in for? I can see a dirty man anywhere.’”
“You are an insolent person. Go away from my premises. Go!” said the Hermit, in an imperious and angry tone.
“Come, come!” returned Mr. Traveller, quite undisturbed. “This is a little too much. You are not going to call yourself clean? Look at your legs. And as to these being your premises:—they are in far too disgraceful a condition to claim any privilege of ownership, or anything else.”