As Vernon-Smith stepped briskly into the street, the man stooped
down as if to do up his bootlace. He was, however, guiltless of
any such dandyism; and as the young philanthropist stood pulling
on his gloves with some particularity, a heavy snowball was
suddenly smashed into his face. He was blind for a black instant;
then as some of the snow fell, saw faintly, as in a dim mirror
of ice or dreamy crystal, the lean man bowing with the elegance
of a dancing master, and saying amiably, "A Christmas box."
When he had quite cleared his face of snow the man had vanished.
For three burning minutes Cyril Vernon-Smith was nearer to the people
and more their brother than he had been in his whole high-stepping
pedantic existence; for if he did not love a poor man, he hated one.
And you never really regard a labourer as your equal until you
can quarrel with him. "Dirty cad!" he muttered. "Filthy fool!
Mucking with snow like a beastly baby! When will they be civilized?
Why, the very state of the street is a disgrace and a temptation
to such tomfools. Why isn't all this snow cleared away and the
street made decent?"
To the eye of efficiency, there was, indeed, something to complain
of in the condition of the road. Snow was banked up on both
sides in white walls and towards the other and darker end
of the street even rose into a chaos of low colourless hills.
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