As was his custom, he wore neither coat nor hat and scorned those who coddled themselves in wraps or became dishevelled in the struggle with the perpetual West Riding winds; his crisp fair hair remained closely modelled to his head, his cheek was fresh and rosy; he held his head high; his stride, neither too long nor too short (as he often thought with pleasure) for his rather slender height, had an agreeable spring. His suit, though not as well-tailored as he could have wished, was made of tasteful (and expensive) worsted, trust him for that. If one meant to get on in the West Riding, one must wear good cloth. He bought an evening paper, the Hudley News, exchanging a pleasant word with the crippled newsvendor. It was part of his general good fortune, the essential fitness of his personality for a higher sphere—and also a piece of undeserved good luck, he reminded himself sardonically—that he had no disfiguring accent in his speech; he could mimic the Yorkshire dialect admirably, but took care to speak it only in quotation marks.
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