“Well, I don’t know,” the curate answered, leaning forward in his chair, with his elbows on his knees and his eyes cast down upon the hat which he was slowly revolving between his hands. “I am not astonished, you know. What can you expect from a pig but a grunt?”
The rector got up, and, leaning his arm on the mantel-shelf, felt, if the truth be told, rather uncomfortable. “I do not understand you,” he said at length.
“It is what I should have expected from Bonamy. That is all.”
“Then you must think him a very ill-conditioned man!” Lindo retorted warmly, scarcely knowing whether the annoyance he felt was a reminiscence of his late conflict or caused by his companion’s manner.
“Well, again, what else can you expect?” Clode replied sagely, looking up and shrugging his shoulders. “You know all about him, I suppose?”
“I know nothing,” said the rector, frowning slightly.
“He is not a gentleman, you know,” the curate answered, still looking up and speaking with languid indolence as if what he said must be known to everyone. “You have heard his history?”
“No, I have not.”
“He was an office-boy with Adams & Rooke, the old solicitors here, swept out the office, and brought the coal, and so forth. He had his wits about him, and old Adams gave him his articles, and finally took him into partnership. Then the old men died off and it all came to him. He is well off, and has power of a sort in the town; but, of course,” the curate added, getting up lazily and yawning—“well, people like the Hammonds do not visit with him.”
There was silence in the room for a full minute. The rector had left the fireplace and, with his back to the speaker, was raising the lamp-wick. “Why did you not tell me this before?” he said at length, his voice hard.