The girl was trembling. She leant one arm upon the stone slab behind her, and the shock of its coldness was a steadying influence. "I bain't gwine let you kiss me. I'd rather slap yer face for yer. What d'yer think then?"
He coaxed her tenderly. "Bain't I worth 'avin' then?"
"I bain't gwine 'av nothing to do with 'ee. I wouldn't 'ave 'ee for the world." Taking up one of the butter pats she began mechanically shaping the mass.
"What's the matter with me that you won't 'av nothing to do with me?" Straightening himself, he opened out unusually broad shoulders and the candlelight revealed a face of black shadows and strong saliences. How strong, how ruthless, how confident he looked! Gray felt her old fear returning, she could not believe that this strange man would be held in check by any of the received standards.
"You'm married and old enough to be my father."
She clinched the matter: "You'm married to Aunt S'bina."
He laughed contemptuously. "Ah, but you would 'av me, if I was a widower, a widower wi' Wastralls for my own."
Putting down the pat, Gray turned at that in a sudden ruffle of indignation.
"Take an' 'old your tongue," she commanded. "I'm ashamed of 'ee to talk like that."
"Well," he persisted, only anxious for her to realize that he meant to make her mistress of all he hoped for in life—Wastralls. "I may be before long. I don't believe the missis'll live very long."