“And you’re a lady. Well, that’s not necessarily kind—to you.”
“But,” she said, “you don’t let me finish. I am not a lady, you know—not of—well, not of his class. That’s why I think him kind.”
“I’m sure I hope you are right,” her friend said. “How does his kindness show itself?” She made haste to justify Mr. Germain.
“Well, to begin with, in his being interested in me at all. He talks to me—he asks about my work.”
“What is your work?” she was shortly asked.
Teaching, she told him; she was a governess.
He looked at her now, strange man, with real interest. “Are you, though? By Heaven, then there’s a chance for you yet. You’re above us all. He may well be kind, with the next generation depending entirely on you. Teachers and mothers—no parson can beat that. Is Germain a schoolmaster?”
She began in a shocked voice, “Oh, no! He’s a gen—” but was drowned in laughter. He threw his head up and laughed to the sky.
“You’re a wonder, I must say. I beg him ten thousand pardons—I forgot. Of course, he’s a gentleman.”
Mary was piqued. “That’s not very kind of you,” she said, with reproach in her tones, and he humbled himself at once.