"But I happen to know, for all he rides such a good horse, he's
not above doing the work of a wretched menial, for he polishes
his own stirrup-irons."

"I'm very glad to hear it," rejoined Mary. "He must be more of a
gentleman yet than I thought him."

"Then why should you count him a better gentleman than me?"

"I'm afraid for one thing, you would go with your stirrup-irons
rusty, rather than clean them yourself, George. But I will tell
you one thing Mr. Wardour would not do if he were a shopkeeper:
he would not, like you, talk one way to the rich, and another way
to the poor--all submission and politeness to the one, and
familiarity, even to rudeness, with the other! If you go on like
that, you'll never come within sight of being a gentleman,
George--not if you live to the age of Methuselah."

"Thank you, Miss Mary! It's a fine thing to have a lady in the
shop! Shouldn't I just like my father to hear you! I'm blowed if
I know how a fellow is to get on with you! Certain sure I am that
it ain't _my_ fault if we're not friends."

Mary made no reply. She could not help understanding what George
meant, and she flushed, with honest anger, from brow to chin.
But, while her dark-blue eyes flamed with indignation, her anger
was not such as to render her face less pleasant to look upon.
There are as many kinds of anger as there are of the sunsets with
which they ought to end: Mary's anger had no hate in it.