She moved her feet and settled herself more conveniently without moving her eyes from his face.
"I dunnot think much o' Frenchmen mysen," she proceeded. "An' neyther does mother, but they say as this is a rich un an' a grand un. She's lived i' France a good bit, an' happen she does na' moind their ways. She's knowed him afore."
"When?" he asked.
"When she wur theer. She lived theer, yo' know."
Yes, he remembered, she had lived there. He said nothing more, only sat watching the little stunted figure and sharp small face with a sense of mild fascination, wondering dully how much she knew and where she had learned it all, and what she would say next. But she gave him no further information—chiefly because she had no more on hand, there being a limit even to her sagacity. She became suddenly interested in himself.
"Yo're as pale as if yo'd had th' whoopin'-cough," she remarked. "What's wrong wi' yo'?"
"I am tired," he answered. "Worn out."
That was true enough, but it did not satisfy her. Her matter of fact and matronly mind arrived at a direct solution of the question.
"Did yo' ivver think," she put it to him, "as she'd ha' yo'?"
He had no answer to give her. He began to turn deathly white about the lips. She surveyed him with increased interest and proceeded:
"Mother an' me's talked it over," she said. "We tak' th' 'Ha'penny Reader,' an' theer wur a tale in it as towd o' one o' th' nobility as wed a workin' chap—an' mother she said as happen she wur loike her an' ud do it, but I said she would na. Th' chap i' th' tale turnt out to be a
