I, of course, intimate that I should not presume to have an opinion contrary to my chief’s: and the Squire continues:
“The windows will be enlarged; the diamond panes will be taken out; the floor will be boarded; and I have ordered some new desks. If we can manage to get three weeks’ holiday without frost at Christmas, we can do all the work then.”
Evans was radiant with joy, and we started for the street. Just by the gate I again hear a soft murmur from infant lips; this time as a soliloquy: “welwch-’i-farf-o!” It is Gwen. Ffarwel, Gwen bach.
“Now, Mr. Inspector,” says the pertinacious Druid, “from here you can see my parish. On the hill-side is Llanfair-castanwydd-uwch-y-mynydd-uchaf....”
“Look here, Mr. Morgan,” the Squire says hurriedly, “come up to the Hall with the Inspector; the Rector is coming, and we will settle Moriah after lunch. Give him a rest now. Hang Moriah.”
“But it isn’t all Moriah,” the Druid was beginning.
The Rector saw his chance:
“Non omnis Moriah: multaque pars mei
Vitabit Libitinam.”
“Ye-es, sure,” said the Druid vaguely: and so it was settled.