“You couldn't have described a place like that unless you had been,” said Miss Rose nodding. “I hope you took the poor people some nice hot soup.”
His lordship tried to explain, but without success. Miss Rose persisted in regarding him as a missionary of food and warmth, and spoke feelingly of the people who had to live in such places. She also warned him against the risk of infection.
“You don't understand,” he repeated, impatiently. “These are nice houses—nice enough for anybody to live in. If you took soup to people like that, why, they'd throw it at you.”
“Wretches!” murmured the indignant Jane, who was enjoying herself amazingly.
His lordship eyed her with sudden suspicion, but her face was quite grave and bore traces of strong feeling. He explained again, but without avail.
“You never ought to go near such places, my lord,” she concluded, solemnly, as she rose to quit the room. “Even a girl of my station would draw the line at that.”
She bowed deeply and withdrew. His lordship sank into a chair and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, gazed gloomily at the dried grasses in the grate.
During the next day or two his appetite failed, and other well-known symptoms set in. Miss Rose, diagnosing them all, prescribed by stealth some bitter remedies. The farmer regarded his change of manner with disapproval, and, concluding that it was due to his own complaints, sought to reassure him. He also pointed out that his daughter's opinion of the aristocracy was hardly likely to increase if the only member she knew went about the house as though he had just lost his grandmother.
“You are longing for the gayeties of town, my lord,” he remarked one morning at breakfast.
His lordship shook his head. The gayeties comprised, amongst other things, a stool and a desk.