This sly, sagacious, whimsical old man had nothing of the taciturnity of a remote village about him; still less had he the urbanity of a large town. He was as much a product of certain peculiar local traditions⁠—in this case urbane gentility mingling with urbane obsequiousness⁠—as if he had been a rare beetle in the hazel-copses of High Stoy or a specimen of the “Lulworth Skipper” butterfly on the Dorsetshire coast!

Wolf couldn’t resist a spasm of envy as he paused for a second to peer up at this old rascal, sucking his pipe, cogitating upon his savings in Stuckey’s Bank, leering at the lads and lasses who passed his gate.⁠ ⁠… Free from all remorse, all misgiving, how greatly did that old villain enjoy life! Ay, he was as selfish as his cat⁠—as those yellow daffodils in that flowerbed! Before he left him Wolf had a queer hallucination. He saw this perfectly well-behaved old man in the shape of a plump, blunt-nosed maggot, peering out from a snug little crack in the woodwork of a blistering cross, on which hung, all in her long black skirt the form of Selena Gault!