“I hope they’ll all look out and see me sitting on their old grass! I hope they’ll come over, and stand in rows on the path, telling me that nice young girls never sat on the grass in England. ... Then I’ll tell ’em what I think. ... I’m just in the mood to do it. Seems as if I hadn’t drawn a free breath for weeks. ‘Cornelia, don’t! Cornelia, do!’ ‘In this country we always—’ ‘In this country we never—’ My stars and stripes; why did I leave my happy home?”
Round the corner of the path there came into view the figure of Morris, keeper of the South Lodge, sweeping the gravel path, his head bent over his task. Cornelia’s naughty eyes sent out a flash of delight. She cleared her throat in a deliberate “hem,” cleared it again, and coughed in conclusion. Morris leant on his broom, surveyed the landscape o’er, and visibly reeled at the sight of such barefaced trespassing. The broom was hoisted against a tree, while he himself mounted the sloping path, shading his eyes from the sun. At the first glance he had recognised the “’Merican young lady,” whose doings and clothings—particularly clothings—had formed the unvarying theme of his wife’s conversation for the last fortnight. He had committed himself so far as to say that he rather fancied the looks of her, but in the depths of his heart the feeling lingered that for a born lady she was a trifle “free.” Morris was a survival of the old feudal type who “knew his place,” and enjoyed being trampled under foot by his “betters.” If an employer addressed him in terms of kindly consideration, his gratitude was tinged with contempt. These were not the manners of the good old gentry in whose service he had been trained!
Opposite the oak tree he came to a stand, and assumed his official manner.
“Beg pardon, miss; visitors his not permitted on the graws.”
“For the land’s sake, why not?”
“It’s against the rules, miss.”
“Suppose it is! What will happen if I break ’em?”
Morris looked discomfited, pushed his hat from his forehead, and murmured vaguely that he ’sposed she’d be punished.
“Who by? Who does the grass belong to, anyhow?”
“To yer Rant, miss, and the hother ladies and gentlemen that owns the park.”