Men and Masters

           ‘Well,Stephen,’saidBounderby,inhiswindymanner,‘what’sthisIhear?Whathavethesepestsoftheearthbeendoingtoyou?Comein,andspeakup.’

           Itwasintothedrawing-roomthathewasthusbidden.Atea-tablewassetout;andMr.Bounderby’syoungwife,andherbrother,andagreatgentlemanfromLondon,werepresent.TowhomStephenmadehisobeisance,closingthedoorandstandingnearit,withhishatinhishand.

           ‘ThisisthemanIwastellingyouabout,Harthouse,’saidMr.Bounderby.Thegentlemanheaddressed,whowastalkingtoMrs.Bounderbyonthesofa,gotup,sayinginanindolentway,‘Ohreally?’anddawdledtothehearthrugwhereMr.Bounderbystood.

           ‘Now,’saidBounderby,‘speakup!’

           Afterthefourdayshehadpassed,thisaddressfellrudelyanddiscordantlyonStephen’sear.Besidesbeingaroughhandlingofhiswoundedmind,itseemedtoassumethathereallywastheself-interesteddeserterhehadbeencalled.

           ‘Whatwereit,sir,’saidStephen,‘asyowerepleasedtowantwi’me?’

           ‘Why,Ihavetoldyou,’returnedBounderby.‘Speakuplikeaman,sinceyouareaman,andtellusaboutyourselfandthisCombination.’

           ‘Wi’yorpardon,sir,’saidStephenBlackpool,‘Iha’nowttosenaboutit.’

           Mr.Bounderby,whowasalwaysmoreorlesslikeaWind,findingsomethinginhiswayhere,begantoblowatitdirectly.

           ‘Now,lookhere,Harthouse,’saidhe,‘here’saspecimenof’em.