“I have not noticed it. But I have seen somebody out there that we know,” she replied, looking into the court.
Fitzpiers followed the direction of her eyes, and said he did not recognize anybody.
“Why, Mr. Winterborne—there he is, cider-making. He combines that with his other business, you know.”
“Oh—that fellow,” said Fitzpiers, his curiosity becoming extinct.
She, reproachfully: “What, call Mr. Winterborne a fellow, Edgar? It is true I was just saying to myself that I never could have married him; but I have much regard for him, and always shall.”
“Well, do by all means, my dear one. I dare say I am inhuman, and supercilious, and contemptibly proud of my poor old ramshackle family; but I do honestly confess to you that I feel as if I belonged to a different species from the people who are working in that yard.”
“And from me too, then. For my blood is no better than theirs.”
He looked at her with a droll sort of awakening. It was, indeed, a startling anomaly that this woman of the tribe without should be standing there beside him as his wife, if his sentiments were as he had said. In their travels together she had ranged so unerringly at his level in ideas, tastes, and habits that he had almost forgotten how his heart had played havoc with his principles in taking her to him.
“Ah YOU—you are refined and educated into something quite different,” he said, self-assuringly.
“I don’t quite like to think that,” she murmured with soft regret. “And I think you underestimate Giles Winterborne. Remember, I was brought up with him till I was sent away to school, so I cannot be radically different. At any rate, I don’t feel so. That is, no doubt, my fault, and a great blemish in me. But I hope you will put up with it, Edgar.”