In the Square he felt that everyone discussed him as he passed; the women chattering at their cottage doors lowered their voices, he was sure, and muttered about him. The milk-boys stared at him unusually, and laughed suddenly, contemptuously, when he had gone. Or so he thought. For he was never sure. He felt sometimes that he would like to stop and make sure. He would like to say to the two young women with the baskets whom he passed every day, “I believe you were saying something about me.⁠ ⁠… I know what it was.⁠ ⁠… Well, it’s all rot.⁠ ⁠… It was another man did it, really.⁠ ⁠… I can’t explain⁠ ⁠… but you’ve no right to look at me like that.” He longed to be able to justify himself, for he was a warm and sympathetic soul, and liked to be on terms of vague friendliness and respect with people he met or passed in the streets or dealt with daily in shops; he liked saying “Good morning” to milkmen and porters and policemen and paperboys. And the fear that any day any of these people might ignore him or insult him was a terrible fear.