"Drat your bird! He won't say no worse! And this is the third mornin'
I've sat temptin' him!"
Mr Philp—yes, it was Mr Philp—in black merino frock, Paisley shawl and ribboned cap on which a few puce-coloured poppies nodded—Mr Philp, with a handful of knitting, and a ball of worsted trailing at his feet— But it is impossible to construct a sentence which would do justice to Mr Philp as he loomed up and swam into ken through 'Bias's awed surmise; and the effort shall be abandoned.
Mr Philp slowly unwound the woollen wrap that had swathed his beard out of sight.
"Clever things, birds," said Mr Philp, and his voice seemed to regain its identity as the folds of the bandage dropped from him. "I wonder whether shavin' would help! . . . I don't like to be beat."
'Bias, who had come with that very intent, lifted a hand—but let it fall again. No, he could not!
"Good Lord!" he ejaculated, and fled from the house.
Outside, Fancy—who had seen all—was executing a fandango on the step.
"Help!" she called, taunting him. "Who talked o' liftin' a hand against a woman?"