“Could you trust yourself to—my honour, child?”
For a long moment she made no reply, and Sir John marvelled to find himself awaiting her answer with a feeling akin to anxiety. “Well, child?” he demanded at length.
“I ... think so, sir.”
“You are not sure, then?”
“Ah, sir,” she sighed, “I be only a poor maid and you’m a grand gentleman like—like them as you druv’ away.”
“Ha, d’ye think so, girl!” he exclaimed pettishly. “Confound me, but you are not flattering! Can you indeed think me of such base, material clay, Rose? Are you so addle-witted, so dense, so dull to suppose ’tis your pink-and-white prettiness lures me?”
“La, no, your honour—indeed, no!” she answered humbly, her voice a little uncertain and her face hid beneath the laces of her mob-cap. “Though—though your honour do think I be—pretty?” she added questioningly.
“Pretty?” he repeated scornfully. “Tush, child! What hath your prettiness to do with it? ’Tis your natural goodness draweth me, your fresh simplicity your purity and unstained innocence! I needs must reverence the white soul of you——”
Here, Sir John chancing to look down and she to look up, their glances met and he was abruptly silent; wherefore she curtsied demurely an murmured:
“Yes, your honour!” But Sir John was silent so long that she began to tap with fidgeting foot and to pleat a fold in her apron.