‘Ah!’ responded the farmer’s wife; ‘you’re like a good many more of ‘em; you’d sooner not have what you want than go the right way to get it.’
Thistlewood digested this in silence, and Mrs. Fellowes set the knitting-needles flashing.
‘I’ve always fancied,’ he said in a little while, ‘as I had your goodwill in the matter.’
‘You’ve got my goodwill, in a way to be sure,’ said the old woman. ‘You’d mek the gell a goodish husband if her could find a fancy for you—but the fancy’s everything—don’t you see, John?’
‘I’m not above taking advice, Mrs. Fellowes,’ said Thistlewood, digging at the gravel with his walking-stick. ‘Will you be so good as to tell me where I’m wrong?’
‘There’s one particular as you’re wrong in,’ returned Mrs. Fellowes, knitting away with a determinedly uninteresting air, ‘and, I misdoubt me, you can’t alter it.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Thistlewood, looking up at her suddenly.
‘You’re the wrong man, John.’
‘That remains to be seen,’ he answered, with the same dogged patience as before.
‘You can’t win a maid’s heart by going at her as solemn as a funeral,’ pursued the old woman. ‘If you’d ha’ begun sprightly with the gell, you might ha’ had a chance with her. “La!” says you, “what a pretty frock you’re a-wearing to-day;” or “How nice you do do up your hair for a certainty.”’