"It depends on what you call enough,"—said Helmsley, slowly—"We're told that some people never know when they have enough."
"Why this is enough!" said Reay, looking admiringly round the little kitchen in which they sat—"This sweet little cottage with this oak raftered ceiling, and all the dear old-fashioned crockery, and the ingle-nook over there,—who on earth wants more?"
Mary laughed.
"Oh dear me!" she murmured, gently—"You praise it too much!—it's only a very poor place, sir,——"
He interrupted her, the colour rushing to his brows.
"Please don't!"
She glanced at him in surprise.
"Don't—what?"
"Don't call me 'sir'! I'm only a poor chap,—my father was a shepherd, and I began life as a cowherd—I don't want any titles of courtesy."
She still kept her eyes upon him thoughtfully.