"Mine will knock spots off the Courier—if we have time for it," said Dick, in the tone of dark suggestion.
"Bring her in," said the woman, curiosity prevailing. "I'll do my best for you both;" and Dick, rising with care not to disturb his now sleeping burden, carried it into the cottage.
The little house consisted of a large kitchen and two bedrooms opening from it. The woman, now almost hospitable, opened one of the inner doors.
"My son Tom's room," she said, with some pride. "He's away to Millsborough. Better put the lady in here. 'Tis a better bed than mine, and all clean and tidy for him against he comes on Monday."
She sighed heavily over some thought of her son, and watched her strange guest lay his strange load on the bed.
The idea that under this ill-fitting, already draggled skirt, and loose, ridiculous man's jacket were concealed the fine skin and well-tended person of a lady, filled her with expectation of romance. If the Millsborough Herald had taught her to despise the "low moral tone" of those who ride in carriages and know not hardship, the Penny Pansy, in its own inimitable manner, had compelled her to believe that they possessed a distinction which she could not define.
They were "dainty" in appearance, "delicate" in thought, and "very pale" in love or tragic circumstances.
But this one—if lady indeed she were—was pale with exhaustion, perhaps hunger, as any woman might be; and yet through it all there shone dimly something which reminded her of the romance she had drunk from the shallow and sluggish channel of machine-made fiction.
If this were a heroine, then the queer, persuasive man, bloody and blue-eyed, was the hero—and his kind she knew neither in Penny Pansy's country nor her own.
"Half a dozen eggs, please, laid to-day. I give half a crown apiece for eggs, if I like 'em," said Dick. "Got any brandy, whisky, or gin? And what's your name?"