“Good morning, Mrs. Hibblethwaite,” said Miss Alicia in a kind but remote manner. “The new Mr. Temple Barholm has been kind enough to come to see you. It's very good of him to come so soon, isn't it?”
“It is that,” Mrs. Hibblethwaite answered respectfully, looking him over. “Wilt tha coom in, sir?”
Tembarom accepted the invitation, feeling extremely awkward because Miss Alicia's initiatory comment upon his goodness in showing himself had “rattled” him. It had made him feel that he must appear condescending, and he had never condescended to any one in the whole course of his existence. He had, indeed, not even been condescended to. He had met with slanging and bullying, indifference and brutality of manner, but he had not met with condescension.
“I hope you're well, Mrs. Hibblethwaite,” he answered. “You look it.”
“I deceive ma looks a good bit, sir,” she answered. “Mony a day ma legs is nigh as bad as Susan's.”
“Tha 'rt jealous o' Susan's legs,” barked out a sharp voice from a corner by the fire.
The room had a flagged floor, clean with recent scrubbing with sandstone; the whitewashed walls were decorated with pictures cut from illustrated papers; there was a big fireplace, and by it was a hard-looking sofa covered with blue-and-white checked cotton stuff. A boy of about ten was lying on it, propped up with a pillow. He had a big head and a keen, ferret-eyed face, and just now was looking round the end of his sofa at the visitors. “Howd tha tongue, Tummas!” said his mother. “I wunnot howd it,” Tummas answered. “Ma tongue's th' on'y thing about me as works right, an' I'm noan goin' to stop it.”
“He's a young nowt,” his mother explained; “but, he's a cripple, an' we conna do owt wi' him.”
“Do not be rude, Thomas,” said Miss Alicia, with dignity.
“Dunnot be rude thysen,” replied Tummas. “I'm noan o' thy lad.”