“Never, Denton.”
“And I’ve had my work to do, my dear, for servants will be servants. They’re paid so much a year, and they reckon how much they ought to do for the money, and when they’ve done that it’s hard to get them to move.”
“Well, Denton,” said Gertrude, smiling, “is it not natural?”
“Natural enough, my dear, if you’ll excuse me calling you so now you’re a grown young lady; but we don’t go by nature in service. I like to see servants take a pride in their work, and the place they’re in. I do, and I always try to make the place look better when there’s no one to watch me.”
“You’re a dear, good old soul, Denton, and I hope we may never part.”
“Till the last, miss, and the last comes to us all as it did to poor dear master. Forty years was I with him, my dear; and it don’t seem like forty weeks. Any news, my dear?”
“No, Denton,” said Gertrude, flushing slightly now.
“Well, he might have written if he has got the news, and said when you might expect him. It isn’t as if Mr Hampton hadn’t telegraphed out. And it does seem so strange. Six weeks since poor master died, and no letter. You’d be glad to hear, miss, wouldn’t you?”
“I—I—yes—I don’t know, Denton.”
“Ah well, natural enough, my dear, when you don’t know what he’s like, and he’s to be your husband. I hope he’ll turn out all poor master said about him, and make you very happy, my dear. I remember well when his poor father and mother brought him here before they sailed for America. Sad, restless gentleman, his poor father, wanting to go to foreign countries, to find gold when master used to tell him that there was more gold to be dug out of people’s pockets than ever he’d find out there. Don’t you think, my dear, that we might begin putting flowers now in young master’s room?”