Clearly, toil was beginning to take on the appearance of "good form." He thought pretty well of himself all that day.

Howells treated him like the proprietor's son; Pat Waugh, foreman of the cooperage, put "Mr.
Arthur" or "Mr.Ranger" into every sentence; the workingmen addressed him as "sir," and seemed to appreciate his talking as affably with them as if he were unaware of the precipice of caste which stretched from him down to them.

He was in a pleasant frame of mind as he went home and bathed and dressed for dinner.

And, while he knew he had really been in the way at the cooperage and had earned nothing, yet--his ease about his social status permitting--he felt a sense of self-respect which was of an entirely new kind, and had the taste of the fresh air of a keen, clear winter day.
This, however, could not last.

The estate was settled up; the fiction that he was of the proprietorship slowly yielded to the reality; the men, not only those over him but also those on whose level he was supposed to be, began to judge him as a man.