“I doan’t want to be nuss to a chap at my time of life, in coourse.”
“No fay; ’t is the man’s paart to look arter his wife, if you ax me. I be a plain bachelor as never thought of a female serious ’fore I seed you. An’ I’ve got a heart in me, tu. Ban’t no auld, rubbishy, worn-out thing, neither, but a tough, love-tight heart—at least so ’t was till I seed you in your weeds eight year agone.”
“Eight year a widow! An’ so I have been. Well, Blee, you’ve got a powerful command of words, anyways. That I’ll grant you.”
“’T is the gert subject, Mary.”
He moved nearer and put down his hat and stick; she exhibited trepidation, not wholly assumed. Then she helped herself to more spirits.
“A drop I must have to steady me. You men make a woman’s heart go flutterin’ all over her buzzom, like a flea under her—”
She stopped and laughed, then drank. Presently setting down the glass again, she leered in a manner frankly animal at Mr. Blee, and told him to say what he might have to say and be quick about it. He fired a little at this invitation, licked his lips, cleared his throat, and cast a nervous glance or two at the window. But nobody appeared; no thunder-visaged Lezzard frowned over the geraniums. Gaffer indeed was sound asleep, half a mile off, upon one of those seats set in the open air for the pleasure and convenience of wayfarers about the village. So Billy rose, crossed to the large sofa whereon Mrs. Coomstock sat, plumped down boldly beside her and endeavoured to get his arm round the wide central circumference of her person. She suffered this courageous attempt without objection. Then Billy gently squeezed her, and she wriggled and opened her mouth and shut her eyes.
“Say the word and do a wise thing,” he urged. “Say the word, Mary, an’ think o’ me here as master, a-keeping all your damn relations off by word of command.”
She laughed.
“When I be gone you’ll see some sour looks, I reckon.”