“We’ll be getting to work,” said Henry, rising, pulling off his coat. Paula got to her feet. She was a little bit confused by the presence of the tramp.

“I go,” she said, smiling brilliantly. Maurice rose and followed her sheepishly.

“A good grind, eh?” said the tramp, nodding after the Fr�ulein. The men only half-understood him, but they hated him.

“Hadn’t you better be getting off?” said Henry.

The man rose obediently. He was all slouching, parasitic insolence. Geoffrey loathed him, longed to exterminate him. He was exactly the worst foe of the hyper-sensitive: insolence without sensibility, preying on sensibility.

“Aren’t