"Perhaps you are right."
But one day he said:
"What trash they are in the main, our employers—trash!"
When I remembered how and when my mother had uttered that word, I involuntarily drew back from him. He asked, smiling:
"Don't you think so?"
"I don't know."
"Well, they are; I can see that."
"But I like the master, anyhow."
"Yes, you are right; he is a worthy man, but strange."
I should have liked to talk with him about books, but it was plain that he did not care for them, and one day he advised me: