These last words were accompanied by little dabs with a wet sponge, to remove soapy patches among the thick whiskers, and then the towel was handed, and the victim walked to the glass.
“Yes, it does make a difference in a man,” he said, as he dabbed and dried.
“Difference, sir? It’s a duty to be clean-shaved. To a man, sir, speaking from years of experience, a beard is hair, natural hair. To a woman, sir, it is nothing of the kind. A woman cannot help it, sir; it is born in her, but to her, sir, a beard is simply dirt.”
“Hah!” ejaculated the gardener, and he thought deeply.
“Yes, sir; I’ve often heard them call it so. Even on the properest man, it is, in their eyes—dirt.”
Brime paid and took his departure, while Wimble plunged at once among his own dark thoughts.
“That man is blind as a mole,” he said, “and can see nothing which is not just before his eyes. He can dig a garden, but he cannot dig down into his own brain. How horrible! how strange! And how the slackest deeds will come out in a way nobody who is guilty suspects. Yesterday, quite a poor man—to-day, very rich—a heavy banking account—come in for a fortune. Yes, it’s all plain enough now. Now, ought I to do anything—and if so, what?”