“Not a bad turnout for a Lovelace,” muttered this latter, when the equipage had passed; “but they never can quite do it!”

Once again Wolf felt a prick of shame at the curious interest which this occurrence excited in him. What was Lord Lovelace to him? He glanced furtively at the squire of King’s Barton. The man’s baggy eye-wrinkles had, just then, a look that was almost saurian. From one corner of his twitching mouth a trickle of saliva descended, towards which a small fly persistently darted.⁠ ⁠…

Wolf turned away his eyes. The magic of the scene had completely vanished. The smell of the trodden earth was stale in his nostrils. A loathing of the whole spectacle of life took possession of him. And under his breath he repealed that strange classical lament, a tag in his memory from his schooldays, a mere catchword now; but it gave him a certain relief to pronounce the queer-sounding syllables.