JEAN. [Hesitatingly at first; then with conviction] If all poor—–­ yes—–­of course.  Of course!

JULIA.  It must be a dreadful misfortune to be poor.

JEAN. [In a tone of deep distress and with rather exaggerated emphasis] Oh, Miss Julia!  Oh!—­A dog may lie on her ladyship’s sofa; a horse may have his nose patted by the young lady’s hand, but a servant—­[changing his tone]—­oh well, here and there you meet one made of different stuff, and he makes a way for himself in the world, but how often does it happen?—­However, do you know what I did?  I jumped into the mill brook with my clothes on, and was pulled out, and got a licking.  But the next Sunday, when my father and the rest of the people were going over to my grandmother’s, I fixed it so that I could stay at home.  And then I washed myself with soap and hot water, and put on my best clothes, and went to church, where I could see you.  I did see you, and went home determined to die.  But I wanted to die beautifully and pleasantly, without any pain.  And then I recalled that it was dangerous to sleep under an elder bush.  We had a big one that was in full bloom.  I robbed it of all its flowers, and then I put them in the big box where the oats were kept and lay down in them.  Did you ever notice the smoothness of oats?  Soft to the touch as the skin of the human body!  However, I pulled down the lid and closed my eyes—­fell asleep and was waked up a very sick boy.  But I didn’t die, as you can see.  What I wanted—­that’s more than I can tell.  Of course, there was not the least hope of winning you—–­but you symbolised the hopelessness of trying to get out of the class into which I was born.

JULIA.  You narrate splendidly, do you know!  Did you ever go to school?

JEAN.  A little.  But I have read a lot of novels and gone to the theatre a good deal.  And besides, I have listened to the talk of better-class people, and from that I have learned most of all.

JULIA.  Do you stand around and listen to what we are saying?

JEAN.  Of course!  And I have heard a lot, too, when I was on the box of the carriage, or rowing the boat.  Once I heard you, Miss Julia, and one of your girl friends—­

JULIA.  Oh!—­What was it you heard then?

JEAN.  Well, it wouldn’t be easy to repeat.  But I was rather surprised, and I couldn’t understand where you had learned all those words.  Perhaps, at bottom, there isn’t quite so much difference as they think between one kind of people and another.

JULIA.  You ought to be ashamed of yourself!  We don’t live as you do when we are engaged.

JEAN. [Looking hard at her] Is it so certain?—­Well, Miss Julia, it won’t pay to make yourself out so very innocent to me—–­

JULIA.  The man on whom I bestowed my love was a scoundrel.

JEAN.  That’s what you always say—­afterwards.

JULIA.  Always?

JEAN.  Always, I believe, for I have heard the same words used several times before, on similar occasions.