's mine!"

After which he performed a kind of triumphal dance around the bags of
copper, rubbing his hands with satisfaction at this step towards making
himself useful to Hazel Thorne, until Mrs Chute came into the room, and
asked him what he meant by making such a fool of himself.

Mrs Chute was a hard-looking little woman, with fair hair and a
brownish skin, and one who had probably never looked pleasant in her
life. She was very proud of her son, "My Samoowel," as she always
persisted in calling him, in despite of large efforts upon the part of
that son to correct her pronunciation; and she showed her affection by
never hardly speaking to him without finding fault, snapping him up, and
making herself generally unpleasant; though, if anybody had dared to
insinuate that Samuel Chute was not the most handsome, the most clever,
and the best son in the world, it would have been exceedingly unpleasant
for that body, for Mrs Chute, relict of Mr Samuel Chute, senior, of
"The Docks," possessed a tongue.

What Mr Samuel Chute, senior, had been in "The Docks," no one ever
knew, and it had not been to any one's interest to find out. Suffice it
that, after a long course of education somewhere at a national school in
East London, Mr Samuel Chute, junior, had risen to be a pupil-teacher,
and thence to a scholarship, resulting in a regular training; then after
a minor appointment or two, he had obtained the mastership at Plumton
School, where he had proved himself to be a good son by taking his
mother home to keep house for him, and she had made him miserable ever
since.

"Why, what are you thinking about, Samoowel, dancing round the money
like a mad miser?"

"Oh, nonsense, mother! I was only--only--"

"Only, only making a great noodle of yourself. Money's right enough,
but I'd be ashamed of myself if I cared so much for it that I was bound
to dance about that how."

Mr Chute did not answer, so she went on:

"I don't think much of these Thornes, Samoowel."

"Not think much of them, mother?"

"There, bless the boy, didn't I speak plain? Don't keep repeating every
word I say. I don't think much of them. That Mrs Thorne's the
stuck-uppest body I ever met."

"Oh no, she's an invalid."

"I daresay she is! But I'd have every complaint under the sun, from tic
to teething, without being so proud and stuck-up as she is. I went in
this afternoon quite neighbourly like, but, oh dear me! and lor' bless
you! she almost a