"That's as may be. If the Lord don't send you sons, the Devil will send you nephews—you know the old saying. Not but what Vivian's boys and girls are a very nice lot—I like 'em all very well indeed. Mark's different—clever enough, but made of another clay. His mother was a retiring, humble woman—frightened of her own shadow, you might say. However, Cora will wake him into a cheerfuller conceit of himself."
There was an interruption, for Dennis Masterman suddenly filled the doorway.
"The very men I want," he said; then he entered.
"Fine sweltering weather for the harvest, your honour," piped an old fellow who sat on a settle by the window with a mug of beer beside him.
"So it is, Abel, and I hope there's another month of it to come. Give me half a pint of the mild, will you, Baskerville? 'Tis about the rehearsal I've looked in. Thursday week is the day—at seven o'clock sharp, remember. And I'm very anxious that everybody shall know their words. It will save a lot of trouble and help us on."
"I've got mine very near," said Nathan.
"So have I," declared Mr. Gollop. "Here I, the King of Egypt, boldly do appear; St. Garge, St. Garge, walk in, my only son and heir!"
"Yes, but you mustn't say 'heir'; the h isn't sounded, you know. Has anybody seen Ned Baskerville? I heard that he was in trouble."
"Not at all," said Nathan. "He's all right—a lazy rascal. 'Twas only another of his silly bits of work with the girls. Running after Mr. Chave's daughter. Like his cheek!"
Mr. Masterman looked astonished.