"What in the world is that?" said I.
"Oh, Kooshti duvvel!" she exclaimed. "You don't know nothin'; you're what they calls a rye, ain't you?"
"Pray, what is a rye?" I enquired, a little diffidently.
"A gorgio gentleman," she explained patiently.
"What should give you that impression?"
"You're s' different to the 'Folk'—or any of the padding kind."
"Yes, I suppose I am—despite my clothes!"
"Your speech is soft an' your ways are softer, but you have a high an' mighty look about ye at times—although you're so precious green."
"Green?"
"As grass!" she nodded, "Very green—like your name."