“Were your conversations with the prisoner frequent, or at all confidential?”
“To own the truth, I never spoke to her in my life. Mary Monson was much too grand for me.”
Dunscomb smiled; he understood how common it was for persons in this country to say they are “well acquainted” with this or that individual, when their whole knowledge is derived from the common tongue. An infinity of mischief is done by this practice; but the ordinary American who will admit that he lives near any one, without having an acquaintance with him, if acquaintance is supposed to confer credit, is an extraordinary exception to a very general rule. The idea of being “too grand” was of a nature to injure the prisoner and to impair her rights; and Dunscomb deemed it best to push the witness a little on this point.
“Why did you think Mary Monson was ‘too grand’ for you?” he demanded.
“Because she looked so.”
“How did she look?—In what way does or did her looks indicate that she was, or thought herself ‘too grand’ for your association?”
“Is this necessary, Mr. Dunscomb?” demanded the judge.
“I beg your honour will suffer the gentleman to proceed,” put in Williams, cocking his nose higher than ever, and looking round the court-room with an air of intelligence that the great York counsellor did not like. “It is an interesting subject; and we poor, ignorant, Duke’s county folks, may get useful ideas, to teach us how to look ‘too grand!’”
Dunscomb felt that he had made a false step; and he had the self-command to stop.
“Had you any conversation with the German woman?” he continued, bowing slightly to the judge to denote submission to his pleasure.