“But I don’t quite understand,” said the Duchessa slowly. “You—you aren’t a labourer.”
Antony drew a deep breath.
“That happens to be exactly what I am,” he responded.
“What do you mean, Mr. Gray?” There was bewilderment in the words.
“Exactly what I have said,” returned Antony almost stubbornly. “I am under-gardener at Chorley Old Hall, or, in other words, a labourer. I get a pound a week wage, and a furnished cottage, for which I pay five shillings a week rent. My name, by the way, is Michael Field.”
The Duchessa looked straight at him.
“Then on the ship you pretended to be someone you were not?” she asked slowly.
Antony shrugged his shoulders.
“That was the reason you wrote and said you couldn’t see me?”
Again Antony shrugged his shoulders.