“_Could_ you?” she said. “Then you’d be a blind donkey for your pains.” She came up and stood before him, her chin raised, her hands clasped behind her back. “So you’re Lord Chesterfield,” she said. “How do you like it?” “How do you?” he asked, grinning. “H’m!” she said critically, bringing one hand forward to fondle her baby chin. “’Tis early days to say. But, on the face of you, you look very much like any other man. But perhaps you’re different underneath--made of gold, like the boys in the folk-tale.” “O! I’m not made of gold, I can assure you.” “Aren’t you, now? I’ve heard of some that are said to be.” “I’m made just like anybody else.” “There, now! What a disappointment! And you call yourself a lord!” “Why, how would you have me?” “I wouldn’t have you at all. What a question from a married man!” He was a little vexed; he made that sound of impatience between tongue and palate which cannot be rendered in spelling. “I see you’re a literal soul,” said he. “I must be careful how I put things.” “You’d better,” she said. “Now I come to look at you, you’ve got a sinful eye.” “And now I come to look at you, I don’t wonder at it.” “Don’t you? Well, for all you’re like to get, you may put it in there and see none the worse.” He laughed, a little astounded. “Troth!” thought he; “this is a strange acquaintance for Kate to have made!” “Why,” he said, “what have I asked or expected but the right of every man to see and admire?” “O! you may admire as much as you like,” quoth she. “I wouldn’t deprive you of that gratification.” “Or yourself, perhaps?” “No!” she said, with indifference; “you needn’t consider me. I’ve more than I can do with already.” “What!” he said, “but not of the town quality? ’Tis only sheep’s-eyes they make at you in the country.” “All’s fish, for that, that comes to a woman’s net. ’Tis a question with her more of quantity than quality.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Do you love the country?” “Sure,” she said. “I love the pigs and the cows and the horses, and the ducks and the geese; but, after all, there’s no goose like a lord.” He laughed, but a little uneasily. He was not quite so confident as he had been of the simple nature of his task. He would just like, for an experiment, to eschew badinage, and insinuate a thought more feeling into the conversation. “I think I agree with you,” he said. “A lord is a goose.” “Unless he’s a gander,” said she. “You called him a goose,” he answered with asperity; “and a goose he shall be.” “Well, don’t quarrel about it,” she protested. “Goose and gander and gosling, they say, are three sounds but one thing. Why is a lord--whichever he is?” “Well, what was _your_ reason for calling him a goose?” “I never did. I said there was no goose like him.” “That was to flatter the goose, I think.” “Was it, now? And I meant it to flatter the lord.”