“She’s going anyhow.”
Steptoe moved away to feel the fastenings of the back windows. “That’ll be a relief to us, sir, won’t it?” he said, without turning his head.
“It’ll make things easier—certainly.”
“I was just ’opin’ that it mightn’t be—well, not too soon.”
“What do you mean by too soon?”
“Well, sir, I’ve been thinkin’ it over through the dye, just as you told me to do this mornin,’ and I figger out—” on a table near him he began to arrange the disordered books and magazines—“I figger out that if she was to go it’d better be in a wye agreeable 153 to all concerned. It wouldn’t do, I syes to myself, for Mr. Rash to bring a young woman into this ’ouse and ’ave ’er go awye feelin’ anythink but glad she’d come.”
“That’ll be some job.”
“It’ll be some job, sir; but it’ll be worth it. It ain’t only on the young lydy’s account; it’ll be on Mr. Rash’s.”
“On Mr. Rash’s—how?”
The magazines lapping over each other in two long lines, he straightened them with little pats. “What I suppose you mean to do, sir, is to get out o’ this matrimony and enter into the other as you thought as you wasn’t goin’ to enter into.”