“You and I know more about some of these good folks than they know themselves,” remarked Mr. Urquhart, grimly. “Our History’ll make ’em sit up a bit; eh? what? Well, off with ’ee, me boy; and if you want to find your mother, I’d look for her in the refreshment-tent, if I were you. Never know’d but one woman who could see a horse-show out to the end⁠—and she was a tart of Lord Tintinhull’s. ‘Sack’ they used to call her; and ‘sacked’ she was, at the finish, poor bitch! Well, good luck to ’ee. We’ll do some solid work tomorrow, please God!”

Wolf mumbled some inadequate reply to this and strode away. What struck him just then was the contrast between the silky tone of his employer’s voice and the toll-pike jocularity of his language. “Neither tone nor words are the real man,” he thought. “What seething malice, what fermenting misanthropy, that mask of his does cover!”