"Hush, father," whispered I.
It was one of his own laborers, one of father's special friends.
"Wait a bit, Joe Jenkins, I'm coming up the road. I want a word with you," said father.
He held out his hand to the squire, but without looking at him, and then went on up the hill. I stayed a moment behind. The squire looked regularly distressed.
"Your father is so peppery," he said, "so very peppery."
"Well, I don't understand what you mean," said I, but not in allusion to his last remark. "Why isn't the thing a good speculation?"
"Oh, my dear young lady, it's very difficult to tell what things are going to turn out to be good speculations and what not," answered he. "At all events, I'm afraid you and I would not be able to tell."
It was very polite of him no doubt to put it like that, but I did not like it: it was like making fun of me, for of course no one had said that I should be able to tell.
"I understood that you thought a great deal of Mr. Harrod's judgment," said I, coldly.
"So I do, so I do," repeated the squire, eagerly. "I believe it to be most sound."