Rising from his chair, and approaching his mirror, as if he had been whipped, he stood a full minute regarding his disgraced and speechless image.  “Are you Robert Belcher, Esquire, of Sevenoaks?” he inquired, at length.  “Are you the person who has been insulted by a woman?  Look at me, sir!  Turn not away!  Have you any constitutional objections to telling me how you feel?  Are you, sir, the proprietor of this house?  Are you the owner of yonder mill?  Are you the distinguished person who carries Sevenoaks in his pocket?  How are the mighty fallen!  And you, sir, who have been insulted by a tailoress, can stand here, and look me in the face, and still pretend to be a man!  You are a scoundrel, sir—­a low, mean-spirited scoundrel, sir.  You are nicely dressed, but you are a puppy.  Dare to tell me you are not, and I will grind you under my foot, as I would grind a worm.  Don’t give me a word—­not a word!  I am not in a mood to bear it!”

Having vented his indignation and disgust, with the fiercest facial expression and the most menacing gesticulations, he became calm, and proceeded: 

“Benedict at the poor-house, hopelessly insane!  Tell me now, and, mark you, no lies here!  Who developed his inventions?  Whose money was risked?  What did it cost Benedict?  Nothing.  What did it cost Robert Belcher?  More thousands than Benedict ever dreamed of.  Have you done your duty, Robert Belcher?  Ay, ay, sir!  I believe you.  Did you turn his head?  No, sir.  I believe you; it is well!  I have spent money for him—­first and last, a great deal of money for him; and any man or woman who disputes me is a liar—­a base, malignant liar!  Who is still master of the situation?  Whose name is Norval?  Whose are these Grampian Hills?  Who intends to go to the town-meeting to-morrow, and have things fixed about as he wants them?  Who will make Keziah Butterworth weep and howl with anguish?  Let Robert Belcher alone!  Alone!  Far in azure depths of space (here Mr. Belcher extended both arms heavenward, and regarded his image admiringly), far—­far away!  Well, you’re a pretty good-looking man, after all, and I’ll let you off this time; but don’t let me catch you playing baby to another woman!  I think you’ll be able to take care of yourself [nodding slowly.] By-by!  Good-night!”

Mr. Belcher retired from the glass with two or three profound bows, his face beaming with restored self-complacency, and, taking his chair, he resumed his cigar.  At this moment, there arose in his memory a single sentence he had read in the warrant for the meeting of the morrow:  “To see if the town will take any steps for the improvement of the condition of the poor, now supported at the public charge.”