“Rings! Of his ears!” cries Cousin Bess, that was sat in the window at her sewing, as she mostly is of an afternoon. “And prithee, what cost the one of his nose?”
“He hasn’t bought that yet,” saith Ned drily.
“It’ll come soon, I reckon,” quoth she.
“Then, o’er all, a mighty gold chain, as thick as a cart-rope. But that, as he told me, was given to him: so ’tis not fair to put it of the price. Eh, good lack! I well-nigh forgat the sleeves—green velvet, slashed of mallard-colour satin; and guarded o’ silver lace—three pound, eight shillings, and four pence.”
“Hast made an end, Ned?” saith Edith.
“Well, I reckon I may cast anchor,” saith Ned, looking o’er to the other side of his paper.
“Favour me with the total, Ned,” quoth Father.
“Twenty-three pound, two and six pence, Sir, I make it,” saith Ned. “I am not so sure Wat could. He saith figuring is only fit for shop-folk.”
“Is thrift only fit for shop-folk too?” asks Father.
“I’ll warrant you Wat thinks so, Sir,” answers Ned.