I stepped back from the path,
and Wilson stooped down awkwardly, and picked a twig from a low bush
that grew by the fence. "Well," he began, drawing a long breath, "I've
been thinking it over, and I've made up my mind to tell you. I expect I
ought to have done it before, but my orders was so strict, and--you see
I'm saving up to get married, and a man hates to lose a good place,--but
that's neither here nor there, Miss, the truth is, I ain't Mr.
Longworth's nurse, and I ain't his valley neither. I'm--I'm his
attendant."
"Well, what of it?" I said, with some irritation. How could Wilson's
absurd distinctions matter to me? What did I care whether he called
himself valet, or nurse, or attendant?
To his credit, be it said that there was no tone of half-exultation,
almost pardonable after my manner of annoyance, as he went on. His
heavy, spatulate finger-tips were stripping the little twig bare of its
leaves. As he continued, I fixed my lowered eyes on that bit of alder. I
remember every tiny, bright brown knot on it, and how one worm-eaten
leaf curled at its edges.
"You see," said Wilson, clumsily, "I mean I was his attendant up to the
Retreat. It was a real high-toned place, and they did not take any
dangerous ones, only folks like him. His people ain't the kind that
stand for price. They've got plenty, and they don't care what they pay.
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