“Do what?” said Jessie, looking up in surprise over the coffee pot. She was just beginning her scrambled egg.
“Own up.”
“Own what?”
“Miss Milton—I’m a liar.” He put his head on one side and regarded her with a frown of tremendous resolution. Then in measured accents, and moving his head slowly from side to side, he announced, “Ay’m a deraper.”
“You’re a draper? I thought—”
“You thought wrong. But it’s bound to come up. Pins, attitude, habits—It’s plain enough.
“I’m a draper’s assistant let out for a ten-days holiday. Jest a draper’s assistant. Not much, is it? A counter-jumper.”
“A draper’s assistant isn’t a position to be ashamed of,” she said, recovering, and not quite understanding yet what this all meant.
“Yes, it is,” he said, “for a man, in this country now. To be just another man’s hand, as I am. To have to wear what clothes you are told, and go to church to please customers, and work—There’s no other kind of men stand such hours. A drunken bricklayer’s a king to it.”
“But why are you telling me this now?”