that were in my mind. Mr. Wardour is not a young man; and he is a
gentleman."

She took the glove-box, and turning placed it on a shelf behind
her.

"Just so!" remarked George, bitterly. "Any man you don't choose
to count a gentleman, you look down upon! What have you got to do
with gentlemen, I should like to know?"

"To admire one when I see him," answered Mary. "Why shouldn't I?
It is very seldom, and it does me good."

"Oh, yes!" rejoined George, contemptuously. "You _call_
yourself a lady, but--"

"I do nothing of the kind," interrupted Mary, sharply. "I should
_like_ to be a lady; and inside of me, please God, I
_will_ be a lady; but I leave it to other people to call me
this or that. It matters little what any one is _called_."

"All right," returned George, a little cowed; "I don't mean to
contradict you. Only just tell me why a well-to-do tradesman
shouldn't be a gentleman as well as a small yeoman like Wardour."

"Why don't you say--as well as a squire, or an earl, or a duke?"
said Mary.

"There you are, chaffing me again! It's hard enough to have every
fool of a lawyer's clerk, or a doctor's boy, looking down upon a