"Tha'rt a queer chap," he said. "I can no more than half make thee out. If thy head was not so level, I should think tha wert a bit soft."
"I don't see why," answered Murdoch, undisturbed. "The child interests me. I am not a Lancashire man, remember, and she is a new species."
"Get in," said Haworth, making room for him on the seat.
Murdoch got in, and as they drove on it occurred to him to ask a question.
"Who's Ffrench?"
"Ffrench?" said Haworth. "Oh, Ffrench is one o' th' nobs here. He's a chap with a fancy for being a gentleman-manufacturer. He's spent his brass on his notions, until he has been obliged to draw in his horns a bit. He's never lived much in Broxton, though he's got a pretty big place here. The Continent's the style for him, but he'll turn up here again some day when he's hard up enow. There's his place now."
And as he spoke they drove sharply by a house standing closed among the trees and having an air of desolateness, in spite of the sun-light.