“What is thy name, child?” questions my lady.
“Ann, if you please, mam—Ann Dumbrell.”
“And why d’ye call me ‘mam’?”
“Because, mam,” answers Rusticity, blushing again, “because you be so ... so fine, mam, an’ arl!”
“Heavens!” exclaims my lady with a pretty petulance, “we must amend this, Ann! For look’ee, child, I be no finer than thyself—just a simple, country maid I be—and solitary. So I’ll walk with thee, Ann, if I may. And my name is Rose.”
“Yes, mam.”
“Nay, call me ‘Rose.’”
“Yes, Rose ... mam.”
“May I go with thee awhile, Ann? And don’t say ‘mam’!”