Her admiration was quite sincere as she said: “I 98 shouldn’t think they’d complain if they had you to put ’em wise.”
He corrected gently. “If they ’ad me to tell ’em.”
“If they ’ad you to tell ’em,” she imitated, meekly.
“Madam mustn’t pick up the bad ’abit of droppin’ ’er haitches,” he warned, parentally. “I’ll learn ’er a lot, but that’s one thing I mustn’t learn ’er. I don’t do it often—Oh, once in a wye, mybe—but that’s something madam speaks right already—just like all Americans.”
Delighted that there was one thing about her that was right already she reminded him of what he had said, that women never learned.
“I said women as ’ad been drilled a bit. But madam’s different. Madam comes into this ’ouse newborn, as you might sye; and that’ll myke it easier for ’er and me.”
“You mean that I’ll not be a kicker.”
Once more he smiled his gentle reproof. “Oh, madam wouldn’t be a kicker any’ow. Jynie or Nettie or Mary Ann Courage or even me—we might be kickers; but if madam was to hobject to anything she’d be—displeased.”
She knitted her brows. The distinction was difficult. He saw he had better explain more fully.
“It’s only the common crowd what kicks. It’s only the common crowd what uses the expression. A man might use it—I mean a real ’igh gentleman like Mr. Rashleigh—and get awye with it—now and then—if ’e didn’t myke a ’abit of it; but when a woman does it she rubberstamps ’erself. Now, does madam see? A lydy couldn’t be a lydy—and kick. The lyte Mrs. 99 Allerton would never demean ’erself to kick; she’d only show displeasure.”