“Ay, it’s snug,” he said very politely, and turned the pipe over in his hand.
“We’ll get by, then,” Thomas said, “while missis sides the pots.” He was already, almost thankfully, in the porch.
“Nay, I don’t rightly think——”
“What’s amiss?”
“Laylock’s gone, d’ye see, and I doubt I can’t smoke anywheres else.” He set the pipe aside, gently, but with a final air.
“What, there was no laylock at Marget’s, was there?” Thomas asked and stared.
“Nay, not as folk knowed.”
“Losh save us—what d’ye mean by that?” Agnes stood up suddenly with a brusque movement, and began to gather the plates together in a pile. When she spoke it was still without looking at either of the men. “Now, then, don’t be fretting him, Thomas. Let him be. He’ll find his way about, after a bit.”
“Gox, you talk for all the world as if he was strange folk come to stay!”
“Happen there’s none so strange as them that comes home.” The words came almost absently from the old man’s lips, as if he was answering, unknown to himself, some echo out of the air. He moved away from the couple to where the fiddle lay, and began to draw the cloth from the taut strings. Thomas looked from his father to his wife, but now it was she who would not meet his eyes. With a movement that was almost symbolic he came into the room and shut the door; the only time, as he knew, that it had been shut that day. He stood in the middle of the floor between the two who were so intent—the man bent over the fiddle and the woman over her pots. The impulse to question was still strong in his mind, but Agnes turned before he could speak, and thrust the plates commandingly into his hands.