She nodded.
"They'd be dust afore your wrath."
Mr. Friend left them presently and went to a little room on the ground floor of Dunnagoat cot, where he pursued his business of testing peat for tar and gas. He never wearied of this occupation. Then, while Sarah Jane washed up the tea things, Brendon made an excuse to leave her and spoke with his future father-in-law.
"Can 'e lend me a razor, master?" he said.
"A razor? Yes. I don't use 'em of late years, but it happens I've got one. What for? Have you changed your mind and want to cut your throat for being a fool?"
"No, indeed. I've only just begun to live; but she don't like my whiskers."
"Ah! Take 'em off, and she'll want 'e to grow 'em again in a week. Wear a hard hat and she'll order a billycock; put on black gaiters and she'll cry out for yellow. God help you, poor giant of a man! You'll hear more about yourself from her fearless lips in the next fortnight, than ever you've found out yet all your life."
"The razor be—where?"
"Up in my sleeping chamber, in a little drawer under the looking-glass."
"Thank you very much, master."