"She's a simple lace-mender,--I was a common cowherd,"--said Angus,
grimly--"Do you think those whom the world calls 'ladies' would make a
friend of _me_?"

Helmsley smiled.

"You're a man--and to women it doesn't matter what a man _was_, so long
as he _is_ something. You were a cowherd, as you say--but you educated
yourself at a University and got a degree. In that way you've raised
yourself to the rank of a gentleman--"

"I was always that,"--declared Angus, boldly, "even as a cowherd! Your
arguments won't hold with me, David! A gentleman is not made by a frock
coat and top hat. And a lady is not a lady because she wears fine
clothes and speaks one or two foreign languages very badly. For that's
about all a 'lady's' education amounts to nowadays. According to
Victorian annals, 'ladies' used to be fairly accomplished--they played
and sang music well, and knew that it was necessary to keep up
intelligent conversation and maintain graceful manners--but they've gone
back to sheer barbarism in the frantic ugliness of their performances
at hockey--and they've taken to the repulsive vices of Charles the
Second's time in gambling and other immoralities. No, David! I don't
take kindly to the 'ladies' who disport themselves under the benevolent
dispensation of King Edward the Seventh."

Helmsley was silent. After a pause, Reay went on--

"You see, David, I'm a poor chap--poorer than Mary is. If I could get a
hundred, or say, two hundred pounds for my book when it is finished, I
could ask her to marry me then, because I could bring that money to her
and do something to keep up the home. I never want anything sweeter or
prettier than this little cottage to live in. If she would let me share
it with her as her husband, we should live a perfectly happy life--a
life that thousands would envy us! That is, of course, if she loved me."

"Ay!--that's a very important 'if,'" said Helmsley.

"I know it is. That's why I want you to help me to find out her mind,
David--will you? Because, if you should discover that I am objectionable
to her in any way, it would be better for me, I think, to go straight
away from Weircombe, and fight my trouble out by myself. Then, you see,
she would never know that I wanted to bother her with my life-long
presence. Because she's very happy as she is,--her face has all the
lovely beauty of perfect content--and I'd rather do anything than
trouble her peace."

There followed a pause. The fire crack