Miss Tranter ceased to stare at the fire, and stared at her domestic instead.
"Prue," she said solemnly, "that old man is a gentleman!"
Prue's round eyes opened a little more roundly.
"Lor', Mis' Tranter!"
"He's a gentleman," repeated the hostess of the "Trusty Man" with emphasis and decision; "and he's fallen on bad times. He may have to beg his bread along the road or earn a shilling here and there as best he can, but nothing"—and here Miss Tranter shook her forefinger defiantly in the air—"nothing will alter the fact that he's a gentleman!"
Prue squeezed her fat red hands together, breathed hard, and not knowing exactly what else to do, grinned. Her mistress looked at her severely.
"You grin like a Cheshire cat," she remarked. "I wish you wouldn't."
Prue at once pursed in her wide mouth to a more serious double line.
"How much did they give you?" pursued Miss Tranter.
"'Apenny each," answered Prue.