“My dearie, that I am, and my name is Ives—Mrs. Ives—at your service.”
“Ives!” said Barbara, feeling puzzled. “Ives—it is an uncommon name,” she added.
“Yes, my love, but not so uncommon in Cornwall as here. I hail from Cornwall, missy.”
“I have never been in Cornwall,” said Barbara, “but I understand that it is a beautiful county.”
“That it is. Eh, but you won’t mind a compliment from an old woman—you have a sweet face. I like them big brown eyes and that clear sort of complexion without any freckles. Was you ever troubled with freckles, dear?”
“No,” replied Barbara.
“Well, there’s a beautiful recipe I has got for getting rid of ’em. It’s mostly made of buttermilk, but the buttermilk must be fresh. Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss”—for Barbara was beginning to move on. “I was on my way to the house to see the lady, the new lady what has got lately married—Lady Pelham. I want to ask her some questions.”
“I am Lady Pelham,” said Barbara, “so you need not go to the house to see me. Can I do anything for you?”
“Oh, sakes alive!” Mrs. Ives dropped three or four curtseys in quick succession. “To think that I should be looking at a real titled dame! It must be wonderful comfortin’ to be called Lady. Do you like it, my dear young Miss?”
“Yes,” answered Barbara, who began to be much entertained. “I like to be called Lady Pelham because I know then that I am my dear husband’s wife. I love him with all my heart.”