The party set out in two vehicles. Old Mr. Giles drove one and the "hired man" the other. Clytie, despite her best endeavours to go in company with Bond, found herself associated with Abner, and a spirit of unchristian perversity took complete possession of her.
She cast her eye about, viewing the prosperous country-side, the well-kept farms, the modest comfort symbolized in her host's equipage itself.
"You're a great sufferer, Mr. Giles," she said suddenly; "aren't you?"
The old gentleman let the lines fall slackly on the fat backs of his sleek horses. "How? What's that?"
"I say you're a great sufferer. You're a downtrodden slave."
"Why, am I? How do you make that out?"
"Well, if you don't know without having it explained to you! The world is against you—it's making a doormat of you."
Medora looked askant. What was the child up to now?
"Poor father," she said. "If he hasn't found it out yet, don't tell him."
"No wonder he hasn't found it out," returned Clytie, making a sudden veer. "Is he suffering for lack of fresh air and pure water? And does he have to pay an extra price for sunlight? And must he herd in a filthy slum full of awful plumbing and crowded by more awful neighbours? Does he have to put up with municipal neglect and corruption, and worry along on make-believe milk and doctored bread and adulterated medicines, and endure long hours in unsanitary places under a tyrannical foreman and in constant dread of fines——?"