“Lady's-maid in the family of a gentleman going abroad.”
“Sarah, you can't be serious?” “I am serious. That was the advertisement I answered.”
“But I mean what you have been. You were not a lady's-maid all your life?”
She pulled her shawl closer round her and shivered.
“People are not born ladies' maids, I suppose?”
“Well, who are you, then? Have you no friends? What have you been?”
She looked up into the young man's face—a little less harsh at that moment than it was wont to be—and creeping closer to him, whispered—“Do you love me, Maurice?”
He raised one of the little hands that rested on the taffrail, and, under cover of the darkness, kissed it.
“You know I do,” he said. “You may be a lady's-maid or what you like, but you are the loveliest woman I ever met.”
She smiled at his vehemence.