Wilkins more, far
more than any open expression of opinion would have done; for that he
could have met, and explained away as he fancied. A secret respectful
dislike grew up in his bosom against Mr. Dunster. He esteemed him, he
valued him, and he could not bear him. Year after year Mr. Wilkins had
become more under the influence of his feelings, and less under the
command of his reason. He rather cherished than repressed his nervous
repugnance to the harsh measured tones of Mr. Dunster's voice; the latter
spoke with a provincial twang which grated on his employer's sensitive
ear. He was annoyed at a certain green coat which his new clerk brought
with him, and he watched its increasing shabbiness with a sort of
childish pleasure. But by-and-by Mr. Wilkins found out that, from some
perversity of taste, Mr. Dunster always had his coats, Sunday and working-
day, made of this obnoxious colour; and this knowledge did not diminish
his secret irritation. The worst of all, perhaps, was, that Mr. Dunster
was really invaluable in many ways; "a perfect treasure," as Mr. Wilkins
used to term him in speaking of him after dinner; but, for all that, he
came to hate his "perfect treasure," as he gradually felt that Dunster
had become so indispensable to the business that his chief could not do
without him.
The clients re-echoed Mr. Wilkins's words, and spoke of Mr.
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