“He seems to be a nice sort of man,” replied the girl.
“A nice sort of man!” remarked Mrs. Harris, astonished. “Why, Hazel! He is one of the nobility. Superior, distinguished! Do you note his condescending air? It is hereditary, my dear. Conscious of being above us, yet every look and move indicates a study to make a descent to our level.”
“Notwithstanding—I think—well—I prefer Joe!” demurely insisted the maid. “He is not quite so polished, but—I like him better, anyway.”
“What! A commoner to a lord? A straw hat to a lady’s tiara? Why, Hazel!”
“That is my choice,” replied the girl, quietly but firmly.
Hazel’s calm dignity irritated Mrs. Harris, and she remarked with a puzzled expression of countenance, “Dear me! I never could understand the fountain of your democratic ideas, Hazel; and the enigma is deeper to me now than ever.”
Hazel’s reply, muttered with the same quiet dignity, was as puzzling to Mrs. Harris as ever. “I am an American, and I love our country too well to leave it for some foreign land.”
Further conversation was cut short by Mr. Harris, who addressed Hazel.
“Did you notice John Thorpe in one of the boats, Hazel?”
“I think so; they were too far away to say positively,” replied the girl.