Sid's eye travelled instinctively to mark Kipps' garments. "How much?" he asked.
"'Bout twelve 'undred a year," said Kipps, more offhandedly than ever.
"Lord!" said Sid, with a note of positive dismay, and stepped back a pace or two.
"My granfaver it was," said Kipps, trying hard to be calm and simple. "'Ardly knew I 'ad a granfaver. And then—bang! When o' Bean, the solicitor, told me of it, you could 'ave knocked me down"
"'Ow much?" demanded Sid, with a sharp note in his voice.
"Twelve 'undred pound a year—'proximately, that is.…"
Sid's attempt at genial unenvious congratulation did not last a minute. He shook hands with an unreal heartiness and said he was jolly glad. "It's a blooming stroke of Luck," he said.
"It's a bloomin' stroke of Luck," he repeated; "that's what it is," with the smile fading from his face. "Of course, better you 'ave it than me, o' chap. So I don't envy you, anyhow. I couldn't keep it, if I did 'ave it."
"'Ow's that?" said Kipps, a little hipped by Sid's patent chagrin.
"I'm a Socialist, you see," said Sid. "I don't 'old with Wealth, What is Wealth? Labour robbed out of the poor. At most it's only yours in Trust. Leastways, that 'ow I should take it." He reflected. "The Present distribution of Wealth," he said and stopped.
