"Did you have a good house?" the girl asked him. "Saw you from the
distance, waving your arms about. Hadn't time to stop."
"Not many," admitted Mr. Simson. "A Christmassy lot. You know. Sort of
crowd that interrupts you and tries to be funny. Dead to their own
interests. It's slow work."
"Why do you do it?" asked Miss Ensor.
"Damned if I know," answered Mr. Simson, with a burst of candour. "Can't
help it, I suppose. Lost me job again."
"The old story?" suggested Miss Ensor.
"The old story," sighed Mr. Simson. "One of the customers happened to be
passing last Wednesday when I was speaking on the Embankment. Heard my
opinion of the middle classes?"
"Well, you can't expect 'em to like it, can you?" submitted Miss Ensor.
"No," admitted Mr. Simson with generosity. "It's only natural. It's a
fight to the finish between me and the Bourgeois. I cover them with
ridicule and contempt and they hit back at me in the only way they know."
"Take care they don't get the best of you," Miss Ensor advised him.
"Oh, I'm not afraid," he answered.
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