“I neither like it nor dislike it,” said O'Reardon, while his eye kindled angrily, for he thought that he who scoffed at him should stand on higher moral ground than Sewell's.
“You once lived with Captain Peters, I think?”
“Yes, sir; I was his valet for four years. I was with him at Malta and Corfu when he was in the Rifles.”
“And he treated you well?”
“No man better, that I 'll say for him if he was in the dock to-morrow. He gave me a trunk of his clothes—mufti he called them—and ten pounds the day I left him.”
“It's somewhat hard, isn't it, to go against a man after that? Doesn't your fine nature rather revolt at the ingratitude?”
“Well, then, to tell your honor the truth, my 'fine nature' never was rich enough to afford itself that thing your honor calls gratitude. It's a sort of thing for my betters.”
“I 'm sorry to hear you say so, O'Reardon. You almost shock me with such principles.”
“Well, that's the way it is, sir. When a man 's poor, he has no more right to fine feelin's than to fine feeding.”
“Why, you go from bad to worse, O'Reardon. I declare you are positively corrupting this morning.”