After a good deal of clatter and bustle, and calls for Molly, the tea was ready at last—a substantial meal, but somewhat untidily served—and Peter, having changed the offensive gaberdine for a shiny black cloth coat, having joined them, the party sat down. It was a very silent one, for no one dared to address another remark to the farmer until he had satisfied his appetite, which took some time. At last, however, as he handed his cup to his wife to be refilled, he asked:
“Who made the butter this week?”
“Why, Molly, as always makes it,” answered Mrs Greenways. “Wasn’t it good. I thought it looked beautiful.”
“Well, all I know is,” said the farmer moodily, “that Benson told me to-day that if this lot was like the last he wouldn’t take no more.”
“Lor’, Richard, you don’t really mean it!” said Mrs Greenways, setting down the teapot with a thump. “Whatever shall we do if Benson won’t take the butter?”
“You can’t expect him to take it if it ain’t good,” answered the farmer. “I don’t blame him; he’s got to sell it again.”
“It’s that there good-for-nothing Molly,” said Mrs Greenways. “I’m always after her about the dairy, yet if my head’s turned a minute she’ll forget to scald her pans, and that gives the butter a sour taste.”
“All I know is, it’s a hard thing, that with good pasture and good cows, and three women indoors, the butter can’t be made so as it’s fit to sell,” said Mr Greenways, hitting the table with his fist.
“What’s the use of Bella and Agnetta, I should like to know?”
Bella tossed her head and smiled. “Lor’, Pa, how you talk!” she said mincingly.