The sick man looked at him narrowly, with oddly smiling eyes.
“That’s it, is it?” he replied.
Matilda heard and understood. “So that’s your big idea, is it, my little man,” she said to herself. She had always said of Hadrian that he had no proper respect for anybody or anything, that he was sly and common. She went down to the kitchen for a sotto voce confab with Emmie.
“He thinks a rare lot of himself!” she whispered.
“He’s somebody, he is!” said Emmie with contempt.
“He thinks there’s too much difference between masters and men, over here,” said Matilda.
“Is it any different in Canada?” asked Emmie.
“Oh, yes—democratic,” replied Matilda, “He thinks they’re all on a level over there.”
“Ay, well he’s over here now,” said Emmie dryly, “so he can keep his place.”
As they talked they saw the young man sauntering down the garden, looking casually at the flowers. He had his hands in his pockets, and his soldier’s cap neatly on his head. He looked quite at his ease, as if in possession. The two women, fluttered, watched him through the window.