He went through that momentary change of feeling that we connect with blushes.

He had been perfectly conscious that this question was coming, and perfectly conscious, too, that when he answered it he would fall in Bates's estimation, that his prestige would be gone.

He thought he did not mind it, but he did.
"Butcher," he said.
"Ye're not in earnest ?" said Bates, with animosity.
"Upon my word." "Ye don't look like that"-- with disappointment.
"Look like what ?"--fiercely--"What would you have me look like?
My father was as good-looking a man as you'd see in the three kingdoms, and as good a butcher, too.

He got rich, had three shops, and he sent us boys to the best school he could find.

He'd have set me up in any business I liked; if I chose his it was because--I did choose it." He was annoyed at Bates's open regret, just as we are constantly more annoyed at fresh evidence of a spirit we know to be in a man than with the demonstration of some unexpected fault, because we realise the trait we have fathomed and see how poor it is.
"How did your brother come to be a minister ?" "He's a _clergyman_ of the Church of England"-- with loftiness.
"Well, that's more of a thing than a minister; how did he come by it ?" "He was clever, and father was able to send him to Oxford.