"You are Sir Rupert's head bailiff, are you not?" said Mrs. Belswin, when she had sufficiently admired her host.
"Yes, madam, I have that honour."
He spoke in a slow sleepy voice, eminently attractive, and suited to his appearance; a voice which, in its languor and oily softness, had an accent of refinement and culture. Yet this man was a simple rustic, a bailiff, one of the peasant class. It was most perplexing; and Mrs. Belswin, clever woman of the world as she was, felt herself puzzled. She was a woman and inquisitive, so she set herself to work to solve this problem by a series of artful questions.
"Have you been a bailiff here long?"
"About four years, madam. I was bailiff to Sir Robert, and when Sir Rupert came into the title he kindly kept me on."
"I should think you were fitted for better things."
Belk gazed at her in a slow, bovine fashion, and a spark of admiration flashed into his sleepy eyes as he looked at this stately woman who spoke in such a friendly manner.
"It's very kind of you to say so, madam, but I have no one to say a good word for me."
"Ah! the rich never say a good word for the poor, my lady," said Mrs. Belk, with fawning deprecation. "If looks go for anything, my Samson ought to live in a palace. He's the finest wrestler in all the county, and the best shot, and the most daring rider----"
"And the poorest man," finished Samson, with a coarse laugh, which betrayed his real nature. "Aye, aye, mother, if I'd money to play the swell, I'd cut a dash with the best of these fine, lily-handed gents."