“His lordship's own man will stand witness, for one; but they'll need another,” she explained, her voice reflecting astonishment at his question.
“True. But why do they need me?” he pressed her. “Heard you no reason given why they should prefer me to your chamberlain, your ostler or your drawer?”
She knit her brows and shrugged impatient shoulders. Here was a deal of pother about a trifling affair. “His lordship saw you as he entered, sir, and inquired of me who you might be.”
“His lordship flatters me by this interest. My looks pleased him, let us hope. And you answered him—what?”
“That your honor is a gentleman newly crossed from France.”
“You are well-informed, mistress,” said Mr. Caryll, a thought tartly, for if his speech was tainted with a French accent it was in so slight a degree as surely to be imperceptible to the vulgar.
“Your clothes, sir,” the landlady explained, and he bethought him, then, that the greater elegance and refinement of his French apparel must indeed proclaim his origin to one who had so many occasions of seeing travelers from Gaul. That might even account for Mr. Green's attempts to talk to him of France. His mind returned to the matter of the bridal pair below.
“You told him that, eh?” said he. “And what said his lordship then?”
“He turned to the parson. 'The very man for us, Jenkins,' says he.”
“And the parson—this Jenkins—what answer did he make?”