The last carriage had rolled away; the tired household had gone to bed; there was no one in the study but me. John came in and stood leaning with both his arms against the fireplace, motionless and silent. He leant there so long, that at last I touched him.
"Well, Phineas!"
I saw this night's events had wounded him to the core.
"Are you thinking of these honest, friendly, disinterested guests of ours? Don't! They are not worth a single thought."
"Not an angry thought, certainly." And he smiled at my wrath—a sad smile.
"Ah, Phineas! now I begin to understand what is meant by the curse of prosperity."
CHAPTER XXXI
A great, eager, but doggedly-quiet crowd, of which each had his or her—for it was half women—individual terror to hide, his or her individual interest to fight for, and cared not a straw for that of any one else.
It was market-day, and this crowd was collected and collecting every minute, before the bank at Norton Bury. It included all classes, from the stout farmer's wife or market-woman, to the pale, frightened lady of "limited income," who had never been in such a throng before; from the aproned mechanic to the gentleman who sat in his carriage at the street corner, confident that whatever poor chance there was, his would be the best.