"Hullo!" said a voice outside the window. "I didn' know as you indulged between meals."
It was Mr Philp, staring in.
"I heard you tappin' on the window-ledge, and I thought maybe you had caught sight o' me," suggested Mr Philp.
"But I hadn't," said Cai, somewhat confused.
"I said to myself, 'He's beckonin' me in for a chat': and no wonder if 'tis true what they're tellin' down in the town."
"Well, I wasn't," said Cai, gulping his brandy-and-water hardily.
"But what are they tellin'?"
"There's some," mused Mr Philp, "as don't approve of solitary drinkin'. Narrow-minded bodies I call 'em. When a man is in luck's way, who's to blame his fillin' a glass to it—though some o' course prefers to call in their naybours; an' that's a good old custom too."
Cai ignored the hint. "What are they tellin' down in the town?"
"All sorts o' things, from mirth to mournin'. They say, for instance, as you and the Widow have fixed it all up to be married this side o' Jubilee."
"That's a lie, anyway."