'Let him marry 'em all, I don't want him.'
'Then you won't let Netta marry my Howels?'
'If he's study in two years, and they are both in the same mind, they may marry, and be hanged to 'em! I never was so bothered in my life. But, between ourselves, I think it's just as likely your son Howel 'ould be study in two years as my son Owen.'
'Oh, name o' goodness, we don't want Miss Netta! No 'casion to be waiting!'
'Then don't wait, 'ooman! Who wants you to wait?'
Mrs Jenkins hurried back into the house, and left Mr Prothero with his cattle.
'I must be going now, Mrs Prothero—my son Howels too! Thousands and thousands of pounds. Netta, come you upstairs, my dear, whilst I am putting on my bonnet.'
Mrs Prothero was not duenna enough to accompany them upstairs, and consequently Netta gave a note to Mrs Jenkins, cried a little, and helped her to abuse her parents.
'Never you mind, Netta, fach,' were the last words, 'Howels don't be meaning to give you up.'
'Good evening, ma'am; good evening, Mr Owen,' said Mrs Jenkins, as she made the attempt at a curtsey, that caused Owen to show his white teeth again.