‘Bower, no doubt.’

‘But how comes Bower to know anything about me?’

‘Oh, I’ve mentioned you sometimes.’

‘Well, do you think of going?’

‘No, I shan’t go.  It isn’t at all in my line.’

Gilbert became silent.

‘Something the matter?’ he asked presently, as his companion puffed on in the same gloomy way.

‘A bit of a headache, that’s all.’

His tone was unusual.  Gilbert fixed his eyes on the pavement.

‘It’s easy enough to see what it means,’ Ackroyd continued after a moment, referring to Egremont’s invitation.  ’We shall be having an election before long, and he’s going to stand for Vauxhall.  This is one way of making himself known.’

‘If I thought that,’ said the other, musingly, ’I shouldn’t go near the place.’

‘What else can it be?’

’I don’t know anything about the man, but he may have an idea that he’s doing good.’

’If so, that’s quite enough to prevent me from going.  What the devil do I want with his help?  Can’t I read about English literature for myself?’

’Well, I can’t say that I have that feeling.  A lecture may be a good deal of use, if the man knows his subject well.  But,’ he added, smiling, ‘I suppose you object to him and his position?’

’Of course I do.  What business has the fellow to have so much time that he doesn’t know what to do with it?’

‘He might use it worse, anyhow.’

’I don’t know about that.  I’d rather he’d get a bad name, then it ‘ud be easier to abuse him, and he’d be more good in the end.’

Their eyes met.  Gilbert’s had a humorous expression, and Ackroyd laughed in an unmirthful way.  The factory bell rang; Gilbert rose and waited for the other to accompany him.  But Luke, after a struggle to his feet, said suddenly: 

’Work be hanged!  I’ve had enough of it; I feel Mondayish, as we used to say in Lancashire.’

‘Aren’t you coming, then?’

‘No, I’ll go and get drunk instead.’

‘Come on, old man.  No good in getting drunk,’

‘Maybe I won’t but I can’t go back to work to-day.  So long!’

With which vernacular leave-taking, he turned and strolled away.  The bell was clanging its last strokes; Gilbert hurried to the door, and once more merged his humanity in the wage-earning machine.

Two days later, as he sat over his evening meal, Gilbert noticed that his mother had something to say.  She cast frequent glances at him; her pursed lips seemed to await an opportune moment.

‘Well, mother, what is it?’ he said presently, with his wonted look of kindness.  By living so long together and in such close intercourse the two had grown skilled in the reading of each other’s faces.

‘My dear,’ she replied, with something of solemnity, ’I was perfectly right.  Miss Denny was those girls’ mother.’

‘Nonsense!’