Sunday. I thought she seemed to smile upon you, Gilbert.

_Gilb._ (_very bashfully_) I can't say, indeed, sir.

_Sir W._ I don't mean, my good Gilbert, to press you to say any thing that
you don't choose to say. It was not from idle curiosity that I asked any
questions, but from a sincere desire to serve you in whatever way you like
best, Gilbert.

_Gilb._ Oh, dear master! I can't speak, you are so good to me, and always
was--too good!--so I say nothing. Only I'm not ungrateful--I know I'm not
ungrateful, that I am not! And as to the rest, there's not a thought I
have, you'd condescend for to know, but you should know it as soon as my
mother--that's to say, as soon as ever I knowed it myself. But, sir, the
thing is this, since you're so good to let me speak to you, sir--

_Sir W._ Speak on, pray, my good fellow.

_Gilb._ Then, sir, the thing is this. There's one girl, they say, has set
her thoughts upon me: now I don't like she, because why? I loves another;
but I should not choose to say so, on account of its not being over and
above civil, and on account of my not knowing yet for sartin whether or not
the girl I loves loves me, being I never yet could bring myself to ask her
the question. I'd rather not mention her name neither, till I be more at
a sartinty. But since you be so kind, sir, if you be so good to give me
till this evening, sir, as I have now, with the hopes of the new inn, an
independency to offer her, I will take courage, and I shall have her answer
soon, sir--and I will let you know with many thanks, sir, whether--whether
my heart's broke or not.