He spoke cold, good English, and there was anger in his voice.

“Do you hate being a gamekeeper?” she asked.

“Being a gamekeeper, no! So long as I’m left alone. But when I have to go messing around at the police station, and various other places, and waiting for a lot of fools to attend to me⁠ ⁠… oh well, I get mad⁠ ⁠…” and he smiled, with a certain faint humour.

“Couldn’t you be really independent?” she asked.

“Me? I suppose I could, if you mean manage to exist on my pension. I could! But I’ve got to work, or I should die. That is, I’ve got to have something that keeps me occupied. And I’m not in a good enough temper to work for myself. It’s got to be a sort of job for somebody else, or I should throw it up in a month, out of bad temper. So altogether I’m very well off here, especially lately.⁠ ⁠…”

He laughed at her again, with mocking humour.