“No. He takes after his mother’s family.”
“And yet, on second thoughts, he’s got a look of your brother William’s boy, Joe, about his eyes. Now that’s a strange thing. Talking of your brother William, I haven’t seen or heard of him for years.”
“I haven’t seen him for twenty years myself. We’re cycling to Wringford to-morrow. We shall put up with him.”
“Well, remember me to him. He was always a great favourite of dad’s.”
“Will’s a good fellow.”
“I suppose he’s in the same place? Mr. Grisewood would be a fool to get rid of a man like that. Good gardeners are scarce. . . .”
Edwin could not understand this at all. It was obvious that the woman must be making some mistake; for it was clearly impossible that his Uncle William could be a gardener. Still, his father offered no protest.
“They tell me,” she went on in her soft West-country voice, “that he’ve apprenticed that boy Joe to Hares, the shoeing-smith.”
“I didn’t know that,” said Mr. Ingleby.
“Well, of course, it may be all right,” the landlady went on, “but there’s always the future to think on. My husband always says that the day of the horse is over. What with steam and electricity, and these new things that I see in the paper they are running from London to Brighton! There’s a gentleman near Bridgewater who has one of these new motor-cars on the road. Of course, I suppose they are fairly reliable on the flat.”