"Still tongue, wise head," said he. "No; I'll have a good think over it first."
He went up to Miser Farebrother with his books and papers, and when the interview was over he returned to his mother, who by that time had a hot meal prepared for him. Before she dished it up he asked her whether she could find Tom Barley.
"The old skinflint wants to see him," said Jeremiah, with an upward jerk of his head, in the direction of the room occupied by Miser Farebrother. "He has something very particular to say to the beggar, which will open his eyes a bit. Go and find him, mother, and send him up. I'll wait. Pleasure first, business afterward."
Tom Barley happened to be within hail, and Mrs. Pamflett sent him up to the miser, and then attended to her son. She waited till he was well primed, and presumably therefore in a more complaisant humour, and then she said, coaxingly, "Won't you tell me, Jeremiah, what you meant by saying 'Why shouldn't it be?'"
"No, I won't, and that's flat," replied Jeremiah; "at least, I won't till I've a mind to. But Phœbe is a pretty girl, isn't she, mother?"
"I was pretty once," sighed Mrs. Pamflett.
"Shouldn't have thought it. But women go off so. I don't know that I've ever seen a much prettier girl than Phœbe."
Mrs. Pamflett opened her eyes wide; she began to have a glimmering of her son's meaning.
"There's styles," continued Jeremiah. "Some like one style, some like another. For my part, I'm not particular, so long as a girl's nice looking. It don't matter to me much whether they're dark or fair, or long or short, so long as they're that. Mother, you're not a bad sort, and I'll be open with you."
"You're my own boy!" exclaimed the fond mother, pressing her son's head to her bosom.