Of those who saw him in the shop, most turned from him to his jolly partner.

But a few there were who, some by instinct, some from experience, did look for him behind the counter, and were disappointed if he were absent: most of them had a repugnance to the over-complaisant Turnbull.

Yet Marston was the one whom the wise world of Testbridge called the hypocrite, and Turnbull was the plain-spoken, agreeable, honest man of the world, pretending to be no better either than himself or than other people.
The few friends, however, that Marston bad, loved him as not many are loved: they knew him, not as he seemed to the careless eye, but as he was.

Never did man do less either to conceal or to manifest himself.

He was all taken up with what he loved, and that was neither himself nor his business.