“Have you many more rows in the coppice close?”
“Finished!” replied George, continuing to read.
“That’s all right—you’ve got on with ’em. The rabbits has bitten them turnips down, mother.”
“I expect so,” replied his wife, whose soul was in the saucepans. At last she deemed the potatoes cooked and went out with the steaming pan.
The dinner was set on the table and the father began to carve. George looked over his book to survey the fare then read until his plate was handed him. The maid sat at her little table near the window, and we began the meal. There came the treading of four feet along the brick path, and a little girl entered, followed by her grown-up sister. The child’s long brown hair was tossed wildly back beneath her sailor hat. She flung aside this article of her attire and sat down to dinner, talking endlessly to her mother. The elder sister, a girl of about twenty-one, gave me a smile and a bright look from her brown eyes, and went to wash her hands. Then she came and sat down, and looked disconsolately at the underdone beef on her plate.
“I do hate this raw meat,” she said.
“Good for you,” replied her brother, who was eating industriously. “Give you some muscle to wallop the nippers.”
She pushed it aside, and began to eat the vegetables. Her brother re-charged his plate and continued to eat.
“Well, our George, I do think you might pass a body that gravy,” said Mollie, the younger sister, in injured tones.
“Certainly,” he replied. “Won’t you have the joint as well?”