'Aye!' said Dan. 'But why didst-na' give in and kiss him, and smack his face for him?'
'There was nothing to give in about, uncle.'
'There never is,' said Dan. 'There never is. That's the point. Still, thou'rt nigh crying, wench.'
'I'm not, uncle,' she contradicted, the tears falling on to the apple.
'And Harold's using bad language all up Trafalgar Road, I lay,' Dan added.
'It was all Harold's fault,' said Maud.
'Why, in course it were Harold's fault. But nowt's worth a quarrel, my dear—NOWT. I remember Harold's grandfeyther—he were th' second of us, your grandfeyther were the eldest, and I were the youngest—I remember Harold's grandfeyther chasing his wife all over th' town wi' a besom a week after they were married.'
'With a besom!' murmured Maud, pained and forgetting to cry. 'Harold's grandfather, not mine?'
'Wi' a besom,' Dan repeated, nodding. 'They never quarrelled again—ne'er again. Th' old woman allus said after that as quarrels were for fools. And her was right.'
'I don't see Harold chasing me across Bursley with a besom,' said Maud primly. 'But what you say is quite right, you dear old uncle. Men are queer—I mean husbands. You can't argue with them. You'd much better give in—'