Malloring flushed. "Now, look here, Freeland," he said, "forgive my
saying so, but this strikes me as a bit cynical. D'you think I enjoy
trying to keep things straight?"

Tod looked up.

"Birds," he said, "animals, insects, vegetable life--they all eat each
other more or less, but they don't fuss about it."

Malloring turned abruptly and went down the path. 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.