Fuss! He never fussed.
Fuss! The word was an insult, addressed to him! If there was one thing he detested more than another, whether in public or private life, it was 'fussing.' Did he not belong to the League for Suppression of Interference with the Liberty of the Subject?
Was he not a member of the party notoriously opposed to fussy legislation?
Had any one ever used the word in connection with conduct of his, before?
If so, he had never heard them.

Was it fussy to try and help the Church to improve the standard of morals in the village?
Was it fussy to make a simple decision and stick to it?
The injustice of the word really hurt him.

And the more it hurt him, the slower and more dignified and upright became his march toward his drive gate.
'Wild geese' in the morning sky had been forerunners; very heavy clouds were sweeping up from the west, and rain beginning to fall.

He passed an old man leaning on the gate of a cottage garden and said: "Good evening!" The old man touched his hat but did not speak.
"How's your leg, Gaunt ?" "'Tis much the same, Sir Gerald." "Rain coming makes it shoot, I expect." "It do." Malloring stood still.

The impulse was on him to see if, after all, the Gaunts' affair could not be disposed of without turning the old fellow and his son out.
"Look here!" he said; "about this unfortunate business.