“What a heartless world!” said Vizard dryly.
“It is past a jest, the whole thing,” objected Miss Maitland; “and, now we are together, please tell me, if you can, either of you, who is this man? What are his means? I know 'The Peerage,' 'The Baronetage,' and 'The Landed Gentry,' but not Severne. That is a river, not a family.”
“Oh,” said Vizard, “family names taken from rivers are never parvenues. But we can't all be down in Burke. Ned is of a good stock, the old English yeoman, the country's pride.”
“Yeoman!” said the Maitland, with sovereign contempt.
Vizard resisted. “Is this the place to sneer at an English yeoman, where you see an unprincely prince living by a gambling-table? What says the old stave?
“'A German prince, a marquis of France, And a laird o' the North Countrie; A yeoman o' Kent, with his yearly rent, Would ding 'em out, all three.”'
“Then,” said Misander, with a good deal of malicious, intent, “you are quite sure your yeoman is not a—pauper—an adventurer—”
“Positive.”
“And a gambler.”
“No; I am not at all sure of that. But nobody is all-wise. I am not, for one. He is a fine fellow; as good as gold; as true as steel. Always polite, always genial; and never speaks ill of any of you behind your backs.”