"I suppose you know Mr. Woodrow's going at last? My wife says she can't live with her father no more, and she's right; so I've had to say that I must have the cottage empty after Christmas. What's he going to do?"
"Can't tell you," answered the other. "There's a general opinion that he's not strong and didn't ought to spend his winters up here."
"I reckon we shouldn't have heard about his health if he'd been a poor man. He's well enough to do everything he wants to do. Have 'e marked that?"
Daniel nodded.
"All the same, we mustn't judge people by their looks," he said. "I was thinking much as you do only an hour agone—and saying it too. But I got a pretty sharp rap over the knuckles from Prout for my pains. Ban't our business, after all. He's a very good master—never heard of a better."
"And a very good payer. I've nothing to grumble at. Only a man's wife must be his first thought. Mrs. Weekes wants to go into the house."
"Us married ones can afford to laugh at the bachelors," declared Daniel.
"So us can—though the bachelors have been known to pay back the compliment sometimes, and make us a laughing-stock. When I was married, kind-hearted people whispered 'twas the rasp wedding with the nutmeg-grater. That's the sort of gentlemanly thing one's friends say behind one's back. But I think it has been proved different. My wife's a wonder in her way—got all my mother's sense without her tongue."
"You're lucky for certain. I'm glad Sarah Jane and her be such good friends."
"So am I, and—and friendship's nothing if it won't—— Look here, may I say a thing to you on a delicate subject, Brendon? Will you promise not to be angered if I do it?"