Miss Butterworth was angry, and had grown more and more angry with every word.  She had brooded over the matter all the afternoon, and her pent-up indignation had overflowed beyond control.  She felt that she had spoken truth which Robert Belcher ought to hear and to heed, yet she knew that she had lost her hold upon him.  Mr. Belcher listened with the greatest coolness, while a half smile overspread his face.

“Don’t you think I’m a pretty good-natured man to sit here,” said he, “and hear myself abused in this way, without getting angry?”

“No, I think you are a bad-natured man.  I think you are the hardest-hearted and worst man I ever saw.  What in God’s name has Paul Benedict done, that he should be treated in this way?  There are a dozen there just like him, or worse.  Is it a crime to lose one’s reason?  I wish you could spend one night in Paul Benedict’s room.”

“Thank you.  I prefer my present quarters.”

“Yes, you look around on your present quarters, as you call ’em, and think you’ll always have ’em.  You won’t.  Mark my words; you won’t.  Some time you’ll overreach yourself, and cheat yourself out of ’em.  See if you don’t.”

“It takes a smart man to cheat himself, Miss Butterworth,” responded Mr. Belcher, rubbing his hands.

“There is just where you’re mistaken.  It takes a fool.”

Mr. Belcher laughed outright.  Then, in a patronizing way, he said:  “Miss Butterworth, I have given you considerable time, and perhaps you’ll be kind enough to state your business.  I’m a practical man, and I really don’t see anything that particularly concerns me in all this talk.  Of course, I’m sorry for Benedict and the rest of ’em, but Sevenoaks isn’t a very rich town, and it cannot afford to board its paupers at the hotel, or to give them many luxuries.”

Miss Butterworth was calm again.  She knew that she had done her cause no good, but was determined to finish her errand.

“Mr. Belcher, I’m a woman.”

“I know it, Keziah.”

“And my name is Butterworth.”

“I know it.”

“You do?  Well, then, here is what I came to say to you.  The town-meeting comes to-morrow, and the town’s poor are to be sold at auction, and to pass into Tom Buffum’s hands again, unless you prevent it.  I can’t make a speech, and I can’t vote.  I never wanted to until now.  You can do both, and if you don’t reform this business, and set Tom Buffum at doing something else, and treat God’s poor more like human beings, I shall get out of Sevenoaks before it sinks; for sink it will if there is any hole big enough to hold it.”

“Well, I’ll think of it,” said Mr. Belcher, deliberately.

“Tell me you’ll do it.”

“I’m not used to doing things in a hurry.  Mr. Buffum is a friend of mine, and I’ve always regarded him as a very good man for the place.  Of course, if there’s anything wrong it ought to be righted, but I think you’ve exaggerated.”