Yet such was Harvey Rolfe's delicacy, and so intense his moral cowardice, that year after year he bore with Mrs.
Handover's defects, and paid her with a smile the wages of two first-rate servants.

Dust lay thick about him; he had grown accustomed to it, as to many another form of sluttishness.

After all, he possessed a quiet retreat for studious hours, and a tolerable sleeping-place, with the advantage of having his correspondence forwarded to him when he chose to wander.

To be sure, it was not final; one would not wish to grow old and die amid such surroundings; sooner or later, circumstance would prompt the desirable change.

Circumstance, at this stage of his career, was Harvey's god; he waited upon its direction with an air of wisdom, of mature philosophy.
Of his landlord, Buncombe, he gradually learnt all that he cared to know.