"Mr. Mortimer is a guest, not a serf," Miss Arkwright reminded him. Tony bowed.
"I apologize. For a moment I had forgotten class distinctions. Beg pardon, mum! By your leave, sir! I must be gettin' back to my job."
He trundled the barrow briskly out of sight to where a mound of soil awaited his efforts. He was soon back, however, and another load of soil was deposited dexterously upon the growing bed.
"You're still obstinate," said the lady, smiling.
"Meaning——?" He paused, shovel in hand.
"That you won't give any account of yourself."
"Why should I?" asked Tony innocently. "I am the slave of a perfectly charming despot"—he bowed again with grace, despite his costume and the mud stains. "I am well housed and fed. I have nothing special to do. I am regaining the rude health of youth——"
"But you have to work!" Lionel reminded him with a laugh. "And judging from your hands I don't think you've done much of that in your life."
Tony waved one of the despised hands.
"It is a popular error to speak of manual laborers as 'the working classes.' There is such a thing as brain-work—no! I don't press the point. As a matter of fact, I am rather attracted by this kind of work—for a change. Perhaps, when I regain my freedom, I shall then take up some sort of work as a hobby."