Kipps: The Story of a Simple Soul

by H. G. Wells

"Rare good chap I know—takes my first floor front room. Masterson says it's always the wife pitches the key. Always. There's no social differences—till women come in."

"Ah!" said Kipps profoundly. "You don't know."

Sid shook his head. "Fancy!" he reflected, "Art Kipps!... Twelve 'Undred a Year!"

Kipps tried to bridge that opening gulf. "Remember the Hurons, Sid?"

"Rather," said Sid.

"Remember that wreck?"

"I can smell it now—sort of sour smell."

Kipps was silent for a moment with reminiscent eyes on Sid's still troubled face.

"I say, Sid, 'ow's Ann?"

"She's all right," said Sid.