It was not, therefore, remarkable that he should be liable
to misconstruction, more especially by those who had nothing in common
with him, except that somewhat negligible factor, common humanity. The
Dallisons had misconstrued him as much as, but no more than, he had
misconstrued them when, as "Westminister" had informed Hilary, he "went
on against the gentry." He was, in fact, a ragged screen, a broken
vessel, that let light through its holes. A glass or two of beer, the
fumes of which his wounded head no longer dominated, and he at once
became "dreadful foreign." Unfortunately, it was his custom, on
finishing his work, to call at the "Green Glory." On this particular
afternoon the glass had become three, and in sallying forth he had felt
a confused sense of duty urging him to visit the house where this
girl for whom he had conceived his strange infatuation "carried on her
games." The "no-tale-bearing" tradition of a soldier fought hard with
this sense of duty; his feelings were mixed when he rang the bell and
asked for Mrs. Dallison. Habit, however, masked his face, and he stood
before her at "attention," his black eyes lowered, clutching his peaked
cap.
Blanca noted curiously the scar on the left side of his cropped black
head.
Whatever Hughs had to say was not said easily.
"I've come," he began at last in a dogged voice, "to let you know.
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