“So the Vicar is really recovering?”
“Since Cousin Marilda flew at the curates, and told them that if they came near him with their worries, they should never see a farthing of hers! And they are all well at home? Is anything going on?”
“Chiefly defence of the copses from primrose marauders. You know the great agitation. They want to set up a china clay factory on Penbeacon, and turn the Ewe, not to say the Leston, into milk and water.”
“The wretches! But they can’t. It is yours.”
“Not the western quarry; but they cannot get the stream without a piece of the land which belongs to Hodnet’s farm, for which they make astounding bids; but, any way, nothing can be done till I am of age, when the lease to Hodnet is out, except by Act of Parliament, which is hardly worth while, considering—”
“That you are near twenty. But surely you won’t consent?”
“Well, I don’t want to break all your hearts, Cherie’s especially, but why should all that space be nothing but a playground for us Underwoods, instead of making work for the million?”
“And a horrid, nasty million it would be,” retorted Anna. “You born Yankee! Don’t worry Aunt Cherry about profaning the Ewe, just to spoil good calico with nasty yellow dust.”
“I don’t want to worry her, but there never were such groovy people as you are! I shall think it over, and make up my mind by the time I have the power.”
“I wish you had to wait till five-and-twenty, so as to get more time and sense.”