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The softy looked darkly at his new employer; but Mr. James Conyers rather piqued himself upon a quality which he called determination, but which his traducers designated obstinacy, and he made up his mind that no one but Steeve Hargraves should carry the letter. “Come,” he said, “no nonsense, Mr. Stephen. Remember this: if I choose to employ you, and if I choose to send you on any errand whatsoever, there’s no one in that house will dare to question my right to do it. Get along with you.” He pointed as he spoke, with the stem of his pipe, to the Gothic roof and ivied chimneys of the old house gleaming among a mass of foliage. “Get along with you, Mr. Stephen, and bring me an answer to that letter,” he added, lighting his pipe, and seating himself in his favorite attitude upon the windowsill — an attitude which, like everything about him, was a half careless, half defiant protest of his superiority to his position. “You need n’t wait for a written answer. Yes or no will be quite enough, you may tell Mrs. Mellish.” The softy whispered something half inaudible between his teeth; but he took the letter, and, pulling his shabby rabbit-skin cap over his eyes, walked slowly off in the direction to which Mr. Conyers had pointed, with a half contemptuous action, a few moments before. “A queer fish,” muttered the trainer, lazily watching the awkward figure of his attendant; “a queer fish; but it’s rather hard if I can’t manage him. I’ve twisted his betters round my little finger before to-day.” Mr. Conyers forgot that there are some natures which, although inferior in everything else, are strong by reason of their stubbornness, and not to be twisted out of their natural crookedness by any trick of management or skilfulness of handling.