If Mr.Datchery thinks she is to be so induced to declare where she comes from, he is of a much easier temper than she is.

But she acquits him of such an artful thought, as he lounges along, like the chartered bore of the city, with his uncovered gray hair blowing about, and his purposeless hands rattling the loose money in the pockets of his trousers.
The chink of the money has an attraction for her greedy ears.

'Wouldn't you help me to pay for my traveller's lodging, dear gentleman, and to pay my way along?
I am a poor soul, I am indeed, and troubled with a grievous cough.' 'You know the travellers' lodging, I perceive, and are making directly for it,' is Mr.Datchery's bland comment, still rattling his loose money.
'Been here often, my good woman ?' 'Once in all my life.' 'Ay, ay ?' They have arrived at the entrance to the Monks' Vineyard.

An appropriate remembrance, presenting an exemplary model for imitation, is revived in the woman's mind by the sight of the place.

She stops at the gate, and says energetically: 'By this token, though you mayn't believe it, That a young gentleman gave me three-and-sixpence as I was coughing my breath away on this very grass.