"I do not think it of your father's son. Seeing what is your own degree in life and what is theirs, that they are noble and of an old nobility, among the few hot-house plants of the nation, and that you are one of the people,—a blade of corn out of the open field, if I may say so,—born to eat your bread in the sweat of your brow, can you think that such a marriage would be other than distressing to them?"
"Is the hot-house plant stronger or better, or of higher use, than the ear of corn?"
"Have I said that it was, my friend? I will not say that either is higher in God's sight than the other, or better, or of a nobler use. But they are different; and though the differences may verge together without evil when the limits are near, I do not believe in graftings so violent as this."
"You mean, sir, that one so low as a tailor should not seek to marry so infinitely above himself as with the daughter of an Earl."
"Yes, Mr. Thwaite, that is what I mean; though I hope that in coming to me you knew me well enough to be sure that I would not willingly offend you."
"There is no offence;—there can be no offence. I am a tailor, and am in no sort ashamed of my trade. But I did not think, sir, that you believed in lords so absolutely as that."
"I believe but in one Lord," said the poet. "In Him who, in His wisdom and for His own purposes, made men of different degrees."
"Has it been His doing, sir,—or the devil's?"
"Nay, I will not discuss with you a question such as that. I will not at any rate discuss it now."
"I have read, sir, in your earlier books—"