Oh, he would be terrible cold.
And what would he be thinking of if his thoughts made him look like that? Would he be thinking of the same things as the schoolmaster?
Oh, no, no, no! Would he?
Would he turn his back upon her, and talk over her to Father Mostyn as though she were a mere wooden palisade? What if she was a lady, as Father Mostyn found necessary to remind her at times when she did n't act like one? How was he to know that?
And even if he did know it, what did it matter? If the thing itself was wrong to start with, how was it bettered because a lady did it?
Besides ... she was n't a lady.
She knew very well she was n't. She was just the post-girl. And he 'd been most good to her in the past; had shaken hands with her and talked French for her (that she was trying hard to learn, with Father Mostyn's assistance, out of an eighteenth century grammar that his father's father had used), and promised to play to her whenever she wanted.
Oh, yes ... she knew; and was very grateful. But that was different now. Then (and he knew it, too) she had been trying to get out of his way. Now she was thrusting herself into it. She was taking advantage of his own kindness to claim friendship and equality out of it, like the impudent beggars that make your one favor the plea for asking a dozen. Friendliness was one thing; friendship was another.
Oh, what should she do? and how should she meet him?
It was a terrible moment.