he sat alone.

After a minute or two he said, "What's your trade?"

Trenholme, sitting there in the clear light, would have blushed as he
answered had his face not been too much weathered to admit of change of
colour. 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.