“Whaffor, Nan? Ain’t ye kep’ me a-waiting long enough?”
“I’ve a message for the gen’elman——”
“Gen’elman, lass? ’Oo? Wheer? D’ye mean—’im?” And the Aged One pointed at Sir John with wavering stick. “’E bean’t no gen’elman—look at ’is ’at! Gen’elman’s ’ats ’as goold lace onto ’em loike Sir ’Ector’s of a Sunday an’ Lord Sayle’s of a week-day. Look at ’is coat—so plain! An’ ’e aren’t got no sword neether! Gen’elman—’im? ’E be jest a respectable young man——”
“You hear that, Rose?” cried Sir John, ecstatic. “You hear? There speaketh hoary Wisdom!”
“’Oo’s ’oary—me?” demanded the Aged Soul, scowling.
“Yourself, Mr. Dumbrell, and are therefore to be revered. Your hand, Sir Reverence, your hand, I beg!”
“Whoy, oi dunno as oi loike the sound o’ that ’ere word——”
“Mr. Dumbrell, you in your nescience saw ’neath the hollow shams and know me for what I truly am, a respectable young man. O most excellent Aged Soul, I thank thee for that word! Mr. Dumbrell, your hand, pray.”
So, after some little hesitation, the sharp-tongued, little old man reached tremulous hand to Sir John’s warm clasp, and, looking up into Sir John’s smiling eyes, the Aged Soul smiled also; quoth he:
“Young man, oi dunno as you bean’t better-lookin’ than what oi thought—leastways your eyes is worth any lass a-lookin’ at, oi rackon, an’—whoy, what be this ’ere?” And the old man stared down at his open palm. “By the pize—a guinea! Dannel it, young man, what be this fur? What do ’ee mean by it?”