“I’m sure you do not,” he said, laughing.
“Indeed I do not,” she continued: “but, for my part, I think you had a great deal better have kept to your father’s trade. Such a business as that is not to be picked up every day. But there, I suppose you know best.”
“Of course he does,” said the Churchwarden, who heard the latter part of her sentence. “You let Luke Ross alone for that. His head’s screwed on the right way.”
“Don’t be so foolish, Joseph,” cried Mrs Portlock. “Do talk sense. Has Mr Cyril Mallow gone?”
“Yes, he’s gone back home,” said the farmer.
“Why didn’t you ask him to stay and have a bit of dinner with us?”
“Because I didn’t want him, mother. He only walked home with me to ask about a bit o’ rabbit shooting.”
“But still, it would have been civil to ask him to stop. It’s market-day, and there’s the hare you shot on Friday, and a bit o’ sirloin.”
“Tchah! he wouldn’t have cared to stay. He dines late and fashionable-like at home.”
“I’ll be bound to say he’d have been very glad to stop,” said Mrs Portlock, bridling. “Fashionable, indeed! He got no fashionable dinners when he was working his way home at sea, nor yet when he was out in the bush.”