Not that the kindly Commodore was gifted with that
microscopic eye which is too easily impressed by the infinitesimal
gradations of society, but he retained too much of the Old World
feeling for class distinctions to make him oblivious to the difference
in their rank.
"Good heavens! Edward," he exclaimed, in a conversation with his son a
few days after the accident, "what uncommonly low ground our little
Rose has been suddenly transplanted to. That old farmer looks as stiff
and straight as one of his own furrows, and his son, what's-his-name?
is of the same mould."
"It's remarkably rich mould, Father. Not such low ground as one might
think."
"Rich! What, in dollars and cents?"
"No; better than that. In knowledge and sense. Allan Dunlop is a very
bright fellow."
"Oh! I _thought_ the paternal acres could scarcely afford a sufficient
yield of potatoes and parsnips to furnish material wealth. As for the
sense you speak of, I hope your friend possesses enough to keep him
from making love to your sister."
"He is far too proud to make love to one whom he considers his social
superior, though she might do worse than permit it.
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