The most frequent visitor to the post-office was a well-dressed, middle-aged man, who spoke civilly, and did his business in the fewest possible words.  Mr. Farmiloe rather liked the look of him, and once or twice made conversational overtures, but with no encouraging result.  One day, feeling bolder than usual the chemist ventured to speak what he had in mind.  After supplying the grave gentleman with stamps and postal-orders, he said, in a tone meant to be conciliatory—­

‘I don’t know whether you ever have need of mineral waters, sir?’

‘Why, yes, sometimes.  My ordinary tradesman supplies them.’

‘I thought I’d just mention that I keep them in stock.’

‘Ah—­thank you—­’

‘I’ve noticed,’ went on the luckless apothecary, his bosom heaving with a sense of his wrongs, ’that you’re a pretty large customer of the post-office, and it seems to me’—­he meant to speak jocosely—­’that it would be only fair if you gave me a turn now and then.  I get next to nothing out of this, you know.  I should be much obliged if you—­’

The man of few words was looking at him, half in surprise, half in indignation, and when the chemist blundered into silence he spoke:—­

’I really have nothing to do with that.  As a matter of fact, I was on the point of making a little purchase in your shop, but I decidedly object to this kind of behaviour, and shall make my purchase elsewhere.’

He strode solemnly into the street, and Mr. Farmiloe, unconscious of all about him, glared at vacancy.

Whether from the angry tradesman, or from some lady with whom Mr. Farmiloe had been abrupt, a complaint did presently reach the postal authorities, with the result that an official called at the chemist’s shop.  The interview was unpleasant.  It happened that Mr. Farmiloe (not for the first time) had just then allowed himself to run out of certain things always in demand by the public—­halfpenny stamps, for instance.  Moreover, his accounts were not in perfect order.  This, he had to hear, was emphatically unbusinesslike, and, in brief, would not do.

‘It shall not occur again, sir,’ mumbled the unhappy man.  ’But, if you consider my position—­’

’Mr. Farmiloe, allow me to tell you that this is a matter for your own consideration, and no one else’s.’

’True, sir, quite true.  Still, when you come to think of it—­I assure you—­’

’The only assurance I want is that the business of the post-office will be properly attended to, and that assurance I must have.  I shall probably call again before long.  Good morning.’

It was always with a savage satisfaction that Mr. Farmiloe heard the clock strike eight on Saturday evening.  His shop remained open till ten, but at eight came the end of the post-office business.  If, as happened, any one entered five minutes too late, it delighted him to refuse their request.  These were the only moments in which he felt himself a free man.  After eating his poor supper, he smoked a pipe or two of cheap tobacco, brooding; or he fingered the pages of his menacing account-books; or, very rarely, he walked about the dark country roads, asking himself, with many a tragi-comic gesture and ejaculation, why he could not get on like other men.