“A clerk?” repeated Miss Rose, with a very well-managed shudder. “How can I suppose such an absurd thing as that?”
“But if I were?” urged his lordship, feverishly.
“It's no use supposing such a thing as that,” said Miss Rose, briskly; “your high birth is stamped on you.”
His lordship shook his head.
“I would sooner be a laborer on this farm than a king anywhere else,” he said, with feeling.
Miss Rose drew a pattern on the floor with the toe of her shoe.
“The poorest laborer on the farm can have the pleasure of looking at you every day,” continued his lordship passionately. “Every day of his life he can see you, and feel a better man for it.”
Miss Rose looked at him sharply. Only the day before the poorest laborer had seen her—when he wasn't expecting the honor—and received an epitome of his character which had nearly stunned him. But his lordship's face was quite grave.
“I go to-morrow,” he said.
“Yes,” said Jane, in a hushed voice.