and yet it's the likes of me has to support the likes of him."
"Ah, go on!" scoffed the younger. "Support the likes of him? Why, all you'd earn in six months wouldn't buy that suit of clothes!"
If the person alluded to in such uncomplimentary terms heard what had been said, his serene face gave no indication that the opinion expressed disturbed his equanimity. He strolled on indolently, unheeding. But the observations were audible to a middle-aged woman, whose rusty black costume and whose anxious, care-seamed face gave token that she occupied a position in the social ladder little higher than that on which these labourers' wives stood. She glanced at the impassive mask of the young man who had been called brainless, then stopped with a gasp and, apparently without intention of speaking, gave utterance to an exclamation:
"Oh, Lord Stranleigh!" she cried.
The young man came to a standstill, slightly raising his admirably glossy silk hat, but no light of recognition came into his eyes.
"I see you don't remember me, and no wonder," continued the woman breathlessly. "I called out before I thought, but I knew you very well as a lad, if I may be forgiven for calling your lordship a lad. I was Sally Hopkins, daughter of Job Hopkins, who kept the lodge at the west gate of Stranleigh Park, my lord."
