“Ah, pity you haven’t something to cry for! Thought I’d see a sin done for ten pound a month, did ye?”
George interposed; he began to enjoy himself. “Peckton? Oh yes. The shoes, you mean?”
Mrs. Bort gasped.
“A trifle,” said George, waving the shoes into limbo.
“Gracious! You ain’t in the same line, are you?”
George shook his head.
“Anything else?” he asked, still smiling sweetly.
“Only a trifle of forging,” said Mrs. Bort. “But p’raps she got her deserts from me over that.”
“Forging?” said George. “Oh ah, yes. You mean about——”
“Her place at Bournemouth? Ah, Nery, don’t you ache yet?”