"Yes, m'lady."
Maud was not enthusiastic about the 'M'lady', but she let it go. After all, she had not quite settled in her own mind what exactly she wished Albert's attitude towards herself to be. Broadly speaking, she wanted him to be as like as he could to a medieval page, one of those silk-and-satined little treasures she had read about in the Ingoldsby Legends. And, of course, they presumably said 'my lady'. And yet—she felt—not for the first time—that it is not easy, to revive the Middle Ages in these curious days. Pages like other things, seem to have changed since then.
"That poem was written by a very clever man who married one of my ancestresses. He ran away with her from this very castle in the seventeenth century."
"Lor'", said Albert as a concession, but he was still interested in the hornet.
"He was far below her in the eyes of the world, but she knew what a wonderful man he was, so she didn't mind what people said about her marrying beneath her."
"Like Susan when she married the pleeceman."
"Who was Susan?"
"Red-'eaded gel that used to be cook 'ere. Mr. Keggs says to 'er, 'e says, 'You're marrying beneath you, Susan', 'e says. I 'eard 'im. I was listenin' at the door. And she says to 'im, she says, 'Oh, go and boil your fat 'ead', she says."
This translation of a favourite romance into terms of the servants' hall chilled Maud like a cold shower. She recoiled from it.
"Wouldn't you like to get a good education, Albert," she said perseveringly, "and become a great poet and write wonderful poems?"