“I do not object because he was poor,” she said. “Riches are less a distinction than a difference. But he has been a servant, and that is irreparable.”
The priest began to hum a tune:
“Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!
Les aristocrats à la lanterne.”
Somewhat to his surprise, she blushed slightly, but did not smile.
“You may think me foolish, or even guilty of sinful pride,” she said with a certain stiffness; “but this is a feeling of which I cannot rid myself. I do not like to sit at table with a person who has once brought me my soup, nor on the same seat in the carriage with one who used to let down the step for me. Of course I recognize and submit to the situation; but I shall go to my own house again immediately.”
“Well!” said the priest, “it takes a good while to get acquainted with people. Here have I known you these ten years and more, have seen you simple, unpretending, humble, apparently, good to the poor, and going freely among them. I thought I knew you thoroughly; yet all at once I come upon the rock in that smooth stream. Have I ever caught a little gray shadow of it before, I wonder? Well, well! I won't undertake to blast it out of the way at once. I am sorry, though, that you do not like John.”
“I like him in liveries,” said Miss Pembroke with dignity.
“I tell you,” persisted the priest, “they are going to be a very happy couple.”
“I haven't a doubt of it,” she replied. “But that is no excuse.”