He is a man of few words, and is sparing of his praise. “Good enough” is, from Crossan, quite an enthusiastic compliment.
“If your lordship would care about a drive any day,” he said, “it’ll be a pleasure to me.”
Crossan always interjects “my lord” and “your lordship” into the middle of the remarks he makes to me; but he says the words in a very peculiar tone. It always seems to me that he wishes to emphasize the difference in our social station because he feels that the advantage is all on his side. “The rank,” so his tone suggests, “is but the guinea stamp. The man”—that is in this case Crossan himself—“is the gowd for a’ that.”
“You can get about the country pretty quickly in that car,” I said.
Crossan looked at me with a perfectly expressionless face for some time. Then he said said—
“If you think, my lord, that I’m neglecting my work, you’ve only to say so and I’ll go.”
I hastened to assure him that I had no intention of finding fault with him in any way. My apology was as ample as possible. After another minute spent in silent meditation Crossan expressed himself satisfied.
“It suits me as little to be running round the country,” he said, “as it would suit your lordship.”
“I quite understand that,” I said. “But then I don’t do it. You do.”
“It has to be,” said Crossan.