furiously began to loathe Bolas. He was furious with himself for
having "lowered himself" to Bolas. Bolas in his ignorance no doubt
thought the books were a cheap charity of cast-off lumber. Uncouth
clod! Stupid clod! Uncouth parish! Hateful, loathsome parish!
For weeks he kept away from Hailsham and the possible vicinity of
Bolas. One day he met him. Bolas passed with no more than a "Good
day, Mr. Aubyn." He could have killed the man. He swung round and
pushed his dark face and jutty nose into the face of Bolas. "Did
you ever get some books I sent you?"

"Ou, ay, to be sure, they books----"

He rushed with savage strides away from the man. All the way home
he savagely said to himself, aloud, keeping time to it with his
feet, "Uncouth clod, ill-mannered clod, horrible, hateful place!
Uncouth clods, hateful clods, horrible, hateful place!"

That was his attitude to his parishioners. They could not come up
to the level of his sensibilities; he could not get down to the
level of theirs.

With the few gentle families that composed the society of Ibbotsfield
he was little better accommodated. They led contented, well-ordered
lives, busy about their gardens, busy about their duties, busy
about their amusements. His life was ill-ordered and he was never
busy about anything: he was always either neglecting what had to
be done or doing it, late, with a ferocious and exhausting energy
that caused him to groan over it and detest it while he did it.
In the general level of his life he was below the standard of his
neighbours and knew that he was below it; in the sudden bounds and