THE BICYCLE MANUFACTURER
You'll soon be too big to speak to—'ow do they put it?—a mere mechanic like me."
"No fear, Siddee," said Kipps with conviction. "I ain't that sort."
"Ah!" said Sid, with a sort of unwilling scepticism, "money'll be too much for you. Besides—you're caught by a swell already."
"'Ow d'yer mean?"
"That girl you're going to marry. Masterman says———"
"Oo's Masterman?"
"Rare good chap I know—takes my first floor front room. Masterman says it's always the wife pitches the key. Always. There's no social differences—till women come in."
"Ah!" said Kipps profoundly. "You don't know."
Sid shook his head. "Fancy!" he reflected, "Art Kipps!. . . Twelve 'Undred a Year!"
Kipps tried to bridge that opening gulf. "Remember the Hurons, Sid?"
"Rather," said Sid.
"Remember that wreck?"
"I can smell it now—sort of sour smell."
Kipps was silent for a moment with reminiscent eyes on Sid's still troubled face.
"I say, Sid, 'ow's Ann?"
"She's all right," said Sid.
"Where is she now?"
"In a place. . . Ashford."
"Oh!"
Sid's face had become a shade sulkier than before.
"The fact is," he said, "we don't get on very well
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