"Lady Caroline wishes particularly to see John."
Abel Fletcher stopped, planted his stick in the ground, released his arm from John's, and eyed him from top to toe.
"Thee?—a woman of quality wanting to see THEE? Young man, thee art a hypocrite."
"Sir!"
"I knew it! I foresaw how thy fine ways would end! Going to London—crawling at the heels of grand folk—despising thy honest trade—trying to make thyself appear a gentleman!"
"I hope I am a gentleman."
Words could not describe my father's horrified astonishment. "Oh, lad!" he cried; "poor, misguided lad!—the Lord have mercy upon thee!"
John smiled—his mind evidently full of other things. Abel Fletcher's anger grew.
"And thee wants to hang on to the tail of other 'gentlemen,' such as Richard Brithwood, forsooth!—a fox-hunting, drinking, dicing fool!"
I was shocked; I had not believed him so bad as that—the young 'squire—Miss March's cousin.