the finest of all qualities, and scorned every manifestation of its
opposite. To prove his inward sincerity he deemed it right to flout
any form of external grace--such as politeness, neatness, elegance,
compliments, small-talk, smooth words, and all ceremonial whatever. He
would have died in torment sooner than kiss. He was averse even from
shaking hands, and when he did shake hands he produced a carpenter's
vice, crushed flesh and bone together, and flung the intruding pulp
away. His hat was so heavy on his head that only by an exhausting
and supreme effort could he raise it to a woman, and after the odious
accident he would feel as humiliated as a fox-terrier after a bath. By
the kind hazard of fate he had never once encountered his great-aunt
in the street. He was superb in enmity--a true hero. He would quarrel
with a fellow and say, curtly, "I'll never speak to you again"; and
he never would speak to that fellow again. Were the last trump to blow
and all the British Isles to be submerged save the summit of Snowdon,
and he and that fellow to find themselves alone and safe together on
the peak, he could still be relied upon never to speak to that fellow
again. Thus would he prove that he was a man of his word and that
there was no nonsense about him.

Strange though it may appear to the thoughtless, he was not
disliked--much less ostracised. Codes differ. He conformed to one
which suited the instincts of some thirty thousand other adult
males in the Five Towns. Two strapping girls in the warehouse of
his manufactory at Knype quarrelled over him in secret as the Prince
Charming of those parts. Yet he had never addressed them except to
inform them that if they didn't mind their p's and q's he would have
them flung off the "bank" [manufactory]. Rachel herself had not yet
begun to be prejudiced against him.