Wolf tried in vain to catch his employer’s equivocal eye as he listened to all this. Never in his acquaintance with Mr. Urquhart had he felt so baffled by the drift of the man’s mind. Something in himself, rising up from very hidden depths, gave him a hurried danger-signal; but what possible danger there could be to him from the man’s words he was unable to see.

“Do they mind it or don’t they?” repeated the Squire. “People pity ’em; but what does anyone know? Perhaps the only completely happy moments of a man’s life are when he’s decided on it. Things must look different then⁠—different and much nicer, eh, Solent? But different, anyway; very different. Don’t ’ee think so, Solent? Quite different.⁠ ⁠… Little things, I mean. Things like the handles of doors, and bits of soap in soap-dishes, and sponges on washing-stands! Wouldn’t you want to squeeze out your sponge, Solent, and pick up the matches off the floor, when you’d decided on it?”