‘You give what it can’t buy.’

’Me.  I’m “a pugilist’s wench”—­I’ve heard myself called.  She was the first who gave me a lift; never mind me.  Have you come to take her away?  She’d trust herself and the child to you.’

’Take her?—­reason with her as to the best we can do.  He holds off from a meeting just now.  I fancy he’s wearing round to it.  His keeping his wife without money passes comprehension.  After serving him for a few months, I had a store invested to support me for years—­as much as I need before I join the ranks of the pen.  I was at my reading and writing and drowsing, and down he rushes:  I ’m in harness again.  I can’t say it’s dead waste of time; besides I pick up an independence for the days ahead.  But I don’t respect myself for doing the work.  Here’s the difference between us two servants, Madge:  I think of myself, and you don’t.’

’The difference is more like between the master and mistress we serve, Mr. Gower.’

‘Well, I’d rather be the woman in this case.’

’You know the reputation I’ve got.  And can only just read, and can’t spell.  My mistress teaches me bits of German and French on her walks.’

Gower took a new observation of this girl, whom he had not regarded as like himself, a pushing blade among the grasses.  He proposed to continue her lessons, if she cared to learn; saying it could be done in letters.

‘I won’t be ashamed of writing, if you mean it,’ said she.  ’My mistress will have a usefuller servant.  She had a strange honeymoon of a marriage, if ever was—­and told me t’ other day she was glad because it brought us together—­she a born lady!’

’A fling-above born ladies.  She’s quick as light to hit on a jewel where there is one, whether it shines or not.  She stands among the Verities of the world.’

‘Yes,’ Madge said, panting for more.  ’Do speak of her.  When you praise her, I feel she’s not wasted.  Mistress; and friend and wife—­if he’d let her be; and mother; never mother like her.  The boy ’ll be a sturdy.  She’ll see he has every chance.  He’s a lucky little one to have that mother.’

‘You think her handsome, Madge?’

Gower asked it, wishing to hear a devotee’s confusion of qualities and looks.

The question was a drop on lower spheres, and it required definitions, to touch the exact nature of the form of beauty, and excuse a cooler tone on the commoner plane.  These demanded language.  She rounded the difficulty, saying:  ’You see engravings of archery; that ’s her figure—­her real figure.  I think her face . . .  I can’t describe . . . it flashes.’