“They’re not going,” said Ellis, half jocularly. “Now then, what is it, my lad?”
“Well, it’s about the gravel paths, Mr Ellis,” said the young man, leaning forward, after wiping his damp forehead, and speaking confidentially. “I’m getting a bit anxious about them.”
“Glad to hear it, my lad. I was always proud o’ my paths in the old days.”
“And so am I, sir. If the gravel paths in a garden’s kept right there isn’t so very much the matter.”
“Humph! Well, I don’t go so far as that, Daniel Barnett, but paths go a long way. So you’re ashamed of their being so weedy, eh?”
“Weedy, sir,” said the young man, flushing.
“Why those paths— Oh, I see! Ha ha! He’s chaffing me again, Miss Mary.”
Mary did not even smile, and the visitor looked uncomfortable, his own face growing serious again directly.
“It’s a long time since they’ve been regravelled, Mr Ellis, sir, and as I could spare a bit of time, I thought, if you were not much pressed up at the farm, you might let me have a hundred loads of gravel carted from the pit.”
“Take a lot of time and very hard work for the horses,” said the bailiff, pursing up his lips.