"Real Christians do, when they know what the right thing is. I am too tired to talk, Rotha."
Rotha bestirred herself and set the little table. Not very much went on it, besides the cups and plates; but there was a loaf of bread, and Rotha made a slice of toast; and Mrs. Carpenter sipped her tea as if she found it refreshing.
"I wish I had a good tumbler of milk," sighed Rotha; "real milk, not like this. And I wish you had some Medwayville cream, mother. I think, if I ever get back into the country again, I shall go wild."
"I sometimes think you are a little of that here," said Mrs. Carpenter.
"Not wild with joy, mother."
Mrs. Carpenter sipped her tea, and stretched out her feet towards the small stove, and seemed to be taking some comfort. But her face was thin and worn, the hands were very thin; a person with more experience than her young daughter would have been ill content with her appearance.
"Mother, now can you tell me my question? What do you mean by a 'gentleman.'"
"Perhaps not just what Mrs. Marble means by it."
"Well, I'll tell you. This person was very well dressed, but clothes do not make it, do they, mother?"
"Certainly not."