"Are the hours too long?"
"I am to please myself. It seems as if the young lady had done her best to make me as independent as a man who works for money can be."
"Yet you hesitate. Why?"
He was silent—thinking what he should tell her. The whole truth would have been best; but then, one so seldom tells the whole truth about anything, far less about one's self. He could not tell her that he had been masquerading all the time, after so many protestations of being a real working-man.
"Is it that you do not like to make friends among the East End workmen?"
"No." He could answer this with truth. "It is not that. The working-men here are better than I expected to find them. They are more sensible, more self-reliant, and less dangerous. To be sure, they profess to entertain an unreasoning dislike for rich people, and, I believe, think that their lives are entirely spent over oranges and skittles. I wish they had more knowledge of books, and could be got to think in some elemental fashion about art. I wish they had a better sense of beauty, and I wish they could be got to cultivate some of the graces of life. You shall teach them, Miss Kennedy. Also, I wish that tobacco was not their only solace. I am very much interested in them. That is not the reason."
"If you please to tell me——" she said.
"Well, then"—he would tell that fatal half-truth—"the reason is this; you know that I have had an education above what fortune intended for me when she made me the son of Sergeant Goslett."
"I know," she replied. "It was my case, as well; we are companions in this great happiness."