I clapped my hands at this; then I could feel my face fall. (Funny expression, isn't it?—almost as absurd as I "dropped my eyes"; but I think I did that too.) "How lovely!" said I. And then, "But what good if I can't get a chauffeur?"
The man's face grew red—not a bricky, ugly red; but as he was very brown already, it only turned a nice mahogany colour, and made him look quite engaging. "If you would take me," he said, "I am at your service."
I never was more astonished in my life, and I just sat and stared at him. I was sure he must be making fun.
"Of course you'll think it strange," he went on in a hurry; "but the fact is, I'm out of a job"
"Why, are you a real chauffeur—a mechanic?" I couldn't help breaking in on him. I almost blurted out that I had taken him for the master, which would have been horrid, of course, and suddenly I was ashamed of myself, for I had been treating him exactly like an equal; and perhaps I was silly enough to be a tiny bit disappointed too, for I'll confess to you, Dad, that I'd had visions of his being someone rather grand, which would have spread a little jam of romance over the stale, dry bread of this disagreeable experience. Anyhow, this man was much better looking than his companion, whom I knew now was the master. He wasn't a gorgeous person, like" Mr. Cecil-Lanstown, but I'd certainly thought he had rather a distinguished air. However, these Englishmen, even the peasants, are sometimes such splendid types—clear-cut features, brave, keen
