“It is, child,” he answered, his gaze still wandering; “but mine is a nature that craves solitude and, at times, I am possessed of a very passion for silence.” “Is this why your honour went and lived in Paris?” she questioned softly. Sir John’s wandering gaze fixed itself rather hastily upon the speaker, but her face was hidden in enveloping hood. “One can find solitude anywhere, Rose,” he retorted. “Can one, sir?” “To be sure, child! ’Mid the busiest throng, the gayest crowd, one’s soul may sit immune, abstracted, in solitary communion with the Infinite.” “Aye, but—can souls sit, your honour?” she questioned. Once again Sir John’s roaming gaze focused itself upon his companion, and when he spoke his voice sounded a trifle pettish. “’Twas but a figure of speech, girl! Souls, being abstractions, ha’ no need to—tush! Why a plague should we puzzle your pretty head with metaphysics? What know you o’ the soul, child—or I, for that matter?” “Not much, your honour,” she answered submissively. “Though parson do say the soul is more precious than much fine gold.” “Have you a soul, I wonder, Rose?” “I ... hope so, sir.” “Then look before you, child, and tell me what you see.” “A dusty road!” she sighed. “And is it nothing more to you, girl? Doth it strike no deeper note? Do you not see it as a path mysterious, leading to the unknown—the very symbol of life itself? And yet, poor child, how should you?” he sighed. “Let us talk of simpler things.” “Oh, thank ye kindly, sir,” she sighed. “An’ I should like to hear about yourself, an’t please your honour.” “Rose!” he exclaimed in sudden dubiety. “Yes, your honour?” “I ... I wish to heaven you would not muffle your face in that pestilent hood!” Mutely obedient, she pushed back the offending headgear, and Sir John, beholding the stolid placidity of her, the serene eyes and grave, unsmiling mouth, grew a little reassured. “Pray what would you learn of so simple a creature as myself?” he demanded. “As much as you’ll tell me, sir. ’Deed, I don’t even know your honour’s name—except that ’tis John.” “Then call me John.” “Nay, sir, I couldn’t be so bold to take such liberty! You a grand gentleman an’ me a poor maid in service!” “But I’m in service also, Rose,” he answered. “Indeed we all are, more or less. I particularly so.” “You!” she exclaimed, turning to stare at him. “You in service! Who with?” “A rather difficult, very exacting person named Sir John Dering.” “Him!” she cried, and immediately began to walk faster than before. “But,” she questioned suddenly, stopping to view him up and down, “but—your grand clothes?” “His, Rose! Sir John’s—borrowed for the occasion!” “Oh!” she exclaimed, and walked on again. “As for my name, you’ll find I shall answer readily to John Derwent.” “John?” she repeated. “’Tis the same as your master’s!” “You may call me ‘Jack,’” he suggested. “Being Sir John Dering’s servant, you will know all about him and his evil ways?” “None better, child.”