Hitherto, in passive obedience to the indoctrination of the Countess, Evan had looked on tailors as the proscribed race of modern society.  He had pitied his father as a man superior to his fate; but despite the fitfully honest promptings with Rose (tempting to him because of the wondrous chivalry they argued, and at bottom false probably as the hypocrisy they affected to combat), he had been by no means sorry that the world saw not the spot on himself.  Other sensations beset him now.  Since such a man was banned by the world, which was to be despised?

The clear result of Evan’s solitary musing was to cast a sort of halo over Tailordom.  Death stood over the pale dead man, his father, and dared the world to sneer at him.  By a singular caprice of fancy, Evan had no sooner grasped this image, than it was suggested that he might as well inspect his purse, and see how much money he was master of.

Are you impatient with this young man?  He has little character for the moment.  Most youths are like Pope’s women; they have no character at all.  And indeed a character that does not wait for circumstances to shape it, is of small worth in the race that must be run.  To be set too early, is to take the work out of the hands of the Sculptor who fashions men.  Happily a youth is always at school, and if he was shut up and without mark two or three hours ago, he will have something to show you now:  as I have seen blooming seaflowers and other graduated organisms, when left undisturbed to their own action.  Where the Fates have designed that he shall present his figure in a story, this is sure to happen.

To the postillion Evan was indebted for one of his first lessons.

About an hour after midnight pastoral stillness and the moon begat in the postillion desire for a pipe.  Daylight prohibits the dream of it to mounted postillions.  At night the question is more human, and allows appeal.  The moon smiles assentingly, and smokers know that she really lends herself to the enjoyment of tobacco.

The postillion could remember gentlemen who did not object:  who had even given him cigars.  Turning round to see if haply the present inmate of the chariot might be smoking, he observed a head extended from the window.

‘How far are we?’ was inquired.

The postillion numbered the milestones passed.

‘Do you see anything of the coach?’

‘Can’t say as I do, sir.’

He was commanded to stop.  Evan jumped out.

‘I don’t think I’ll take you any farther,’ he said.

The postillion laughed to scorn the notion of his caring how far he went.  With a pipe in his mouth, he insinuatingly remarked, he could jog on all night, and throw sleep to the dogs.  Fresh horses at Hillford; fresh at Fallow field:  and the gentleman himself would reach Lymport fresh in the morning.

‘No, no; I won’t take you any farther,’ Evan repeated.