But dressed in imitation of the work of Gay's London tailor, the miller lost the distinction which nature had given him without acquiring the one conferred by society.
"You got my letter, Molly ?" he asked--and the question was unfortunate, for it reminded her not only of the letter, but of Gay's innocent jest about the dove on the envelope.

She had been ashamed at the instant, and she was ashamed now when she remembered it, for there is nothing so contagious as an active regard for the petty social values of life.

In three days she had not only begun to lose her own crudeness--she had attained to a certain small criticism of the crudeness of Abel.

Already the difference between the two men was irritating her, yet she was still unconscious as to the the exact particular in which this difference lay.
Her vision had perceived the broad distinction of class, though it was untrained as yet to detect minute variations of manner.

She knew instinctively that Gay looked a man of the world and Abel a rustic, but this did not shake in the least the knowledge that it was Abel, not Gay, whom she loved.
"Yes, I got your letter," she answered, and then she added very softly: "Abel, I've always known I was not good enough for you." Her tone, not her words, checked his advance, and he stood staring at her in perplexity.