Towards midsummer one evening Glastonbury came in in the late dusk. Phemy was there in the darkened kitchen. “Master,” she said immediately he entered. He stopped before her. She continued: “Something’s happened.”
“Huh, while the world goes popping round something shall always happen.”
“It’s me—I’m took—a baby, master,” she said. He stood stock-still. His face was to the light, she could not see the expression on his face, perhaps he wanted to embrace her.
“Let’s have a light, sharp,” he said in his brusque way. “The supper smells good but I can’t see what I’m smelling, and I can only fancy what I be looking at.”
She lit the candles and they ate supper in silence. Afterwards he sat away from the table with his legs outstretched and crossed, hands sunk into pockets, pondering while the girl cleared the table. Soon he put his powerful arm around her waist and drew her to sit on his knees.
“Are ye sure o’ that?” he demanded.
She was sure.
“Quite?”
She was quite sure.
“Ah, well then,” he sighed conclusively, “we’ll be married.”