"Why, Alice!" she exclaimed reprovingly under her breath.
"He told me so himself," asserted the girl, defiantly.
"I may have to do so again," said Keith, dryly.
Mrs. Yorke's hand went toward the region of her pocket, but uncertainly; for she was not quite sure what he was. His face and air belied his shabby dress. A closer look than she had given him caused her to stop with a start.
"Mr.--ah--?" After trying to recall the name, she gave it up. "I am very much obliged to you for your kindness to my daughter," she began. "I do not know how I can compensate you; but if you will come to the hotel sometime to-morrow--any time--perhaps, there is something--? Can you come to the hotel to-morrow?" Her tone was condescending.
"Thank you," said Keith, quietly. "I am afraid I cannot go to the village to-morrow. I have already been more than compensated in being able to render a service to a lady. I have a school, and I make it a rule never to go anywhere except Friday evening or Saturday." He lifted his hat and backed away.
As they drove away the girl said, "Thank you" and "Good-by," very sweetly.
"Who is he, Alice? What is he?" asked her mother.
"I don't know. Mr. Keith. He is a gentleman."
As Gordon stood by the roadside and saw the carriage disappear in a haze of dust, he was oppressed with a curious sense of loneliness. The isolation of his position seemed to strike him all on a sudden. That stout, full-voiced woman, with her rich clothes, had interposed between him and the rest of his kind. She had treated him condescendingly. He would show her some day who he was. But her daughter! He went off into a revery.