“Eight months, Madam⁠ ⁠… your Ladyship!” he corrected himself calmly.

“And do you like it?”

She looked him in the eyes. His eyes narrowed a little, with irony, perhaps with impudence.

“Why, yes, thank you, your Ladyship! I was reared here.⁠ ⁠…” He gave another slight bow, turned, put his hat on, and strode to take hold of the chair. His voice on the last words had fallen into the heavy broad drag of the dialect⁠ ⁠… perhaps also in mockery, because there had been no trace of dialect before. He might almost be a gentleman. Anyhow, he was a curious, quick, separate fellow, alone, but sure of himself.

Clifford started the little engine, the man carefully turned the chair, and set it nose-forwards to the incline that curved gently to the dark hazel thicket.

“Is that all then, Sir Clifford?” asked the man.