Jane stared at him in resentful silence for a moment before she replied. "I know nothing of American ways," she said—which was not entirely true, by the way, since for years she had devoured everything she could lay her hands on concerning America—"but in England no gentleman would speak to a servant as you have spoken to me, unless——"
"Unless—what, Jane?" he urged.
"Unless he meant to—insult her," she said haughtily.
John Everett's handsome face flushed scarlet.
"Jane," he said sternly. "Look at me."
She raised her eyes to his reluctantly.
"Did you really think I was trying to insult you?"
"N—o," she faltered. "But——"
"In America," he went on eagerly, "there is nothing to prevent our being friends. Everyone works for a living here. There is no high and no low. In America a man who would wantonly insult a woman who works is not called a gentleman. He is called a scoundrel! And, Jane, whatever else I may be I am not a scoundrel."