“I am.” The slight note of inflation was unconscious. “And old Scrimshire an’ that pettifoggin’ crew are goin’ to have a word in season from Alderman Munt.”
“Mustn’t get yourself disliked though.”
Josiah smiled sourly. “Gel,” he said, “a man worth his salt is never afraid o’ being unpopular. Right is right an’ wrong is no man’s right. Our Water Board’s got to be run on new lines. It’s a disgrace to the city.”
Miss Preston was far too wise to offer an opinion upon that matter. She knew, none better, the limits imposed by affairs upon the sex to which she belonged. But she was very shrewd and perceptive and underneath the subtle flatteries she dealt out habitually to this brother-in-law of hers was a genuine respect for great abilities and his terrific force of character.
Among all the outstanding figures in Blackhampton his was perhaps the least attractive. His name, in polite circles, was almost a byword, for he never studied the feelings of anybody; he deferred only to his own will and invariably took the shortest way to enforce it. There was generally a covert laugh or a covert sneer at the mention of his name and the house he had recently built on The Rise had set a seal upon his unpopularity. Nevertheless, the people who knew him best respected him most. His sister-in-law knew him very well indeed.
Maria poured out a second cup of tea rather nervously for Josiah to whom Miss Preston handed it archly.
“No cake, thanks. I dussent.” He tapped his chest significantly; then he cast a complacent glance through the wide-flung drawing-room windows to the fair pleasaunce beyond. “So you think, Gert, take it altogether, this is a cut above Waterloo Villa, eh?”
Gertrude’s only answer to such a question was a discreet laugh.
“Waterloo Villa was so comfortable,” sighed the depressed lady in puce silk.