For one thing, he brought back to her the memory of days when she had possessed a home of her own, and had not yet been soured by ill-hap; then again, Bower belonged to her own class, for all his money saved up and his pomposities of manner.

There is a freemasonry between the members of the pure-blooded proletariat; they are ever ready in recognition of each other, and their suspicion of all above them, whether by rank or by nature, is a sense of the utmost keenness.

Mrs.Butterfield varied somewhat from the type, inasmuch as she did not care to cringe before her superiors; but that was an accident; in essentials of feeling she and Bower were at one.
The table was half covered with a dirty cloth, on which stood a loaf of bread (plateless), a small dish ready to receive the fry, and a jug of beer.

In the midst of the newly painted and papered room, which seemed ready to receive furniture of a more elegant kind than that of working-class homes, these things had an incongruity.
'And how does the world use _you_, Mrs.Butterfield, ma'am ?' Bower asked, as he settled his bulky body on the small chair.
'I earn my bed and my victuals, Mr.Bower,' was the reply, as the old woman stirred her hissing mess with a fork.
'And a thing to be proud of at your age, ma'am.' From such friendly dialogue, Bower gradually turned the talk to Egremont, of whom he spoke at first as a respected intimate.
Observation of his collocutor led him shortly to alter his tone a little.

When he had heard that books were already arriving, he remarked: 'That's as much as to say that you'll soon be turned out, Mrs.
Butterfield.