"Is na it th' one as yore feyther's so bitter agen?"
"Yes."
"An' is na he a gentleman? He dunnot look loike a workin' mon. His cloas dunnot fit him loike common foakes. He mun be a gentleman."
"I've heerd foak ca' him one; an' if his cloas fit him reet, he mun be one, I suppose."
Liz looked after him again.
"Aye," she sighed, "he's a gentleman sure enow. I've seed gentlemen enow to know th' look on 'em. Did" hesitating fearfully, but letting her curiosity get the better of her discretion nevertheless,—"did he court thee, Joan?"
The next moment she was frightened into wishing she had not asked the question. Joan turned round and faced her suddenly, pale and wrathful.
"Nay, he did na," she said. "I am na a lady, an' he is what tha ca's him—a gentleman."
