“Well, I don’t know as it matters much,” said the groom, drearily. “You don’t seem to understand a fellow, and it’s all wrong here, and it’s miserable to see the poor guv’nor so down in the mouth.”
“Down in the mouth indeed, after missus’s father found the money to pay all his debts, and four thousand pounds for him to go into Parliament as an M.P.”
“Tchah! Such nonsense! Our Sir Hilton ain’t going to give up the Turf and chuck hisself away like that.”
“Chuck hisself away?”
“Yes. Turn Jawkins. Him going to turn himself into a talking windmill, a-waving his arms about? Not he. But how come you to hear that?”
“Mr Trimmer told me.”
“Mr Trimmer! How come he to tell you?” said the young man, with his face growing dark.
“Oh, Mr Trimmer is very pleasant and friendly to me sometimes.”
“Oh, is he? Then he ain’t going to be, and so I tell him. A long, lanky, white-chokered imitation Methody parson, that’s what he is! What right has he got to be civil to you, I should like to know?”
“Well, I’m sure, sir,” cried the girl, whose eyes were sparkling with delight to see how her lover was moved, “I don’t know what her ladyship’s bailiff and agent and steward and confidential man would say—him, a real gentleman—if he heard what poor Sir Hilton’s groom and valet said.”