“Hallo, pussy; that brings the colour to your cheeks.”
“No, papa; indeed I—”
“Yes, I know. I say, Claudie, fine handsome fellow, eh? Bit too pale for a yachtsman. But what a yacht! Do you know he came in for three hundred and fifty thousand when his father died?”
“Indeed, papa?” said the girl carelessly.
“Yes! Old Glyddyr was not like your grandfather, confound him.”
“Papa!”
“Con—found him! Didn’t I speak plain? Glyddyr left his boys a slate quarry in Wales for the eldest, and three hundred and fifty for the younger. Parry’s the younger. Eh? Nice fortune for a handsome young yachtsman, Claudie. There, go and have your walk, and keep Mary out of mischief.—Well?”
This was to a hard, heavy-looking man in working clothes, covered with earth stains and stone dust, who was ushered into the room, and who, ignoring the speaker’s presence, stood bowing awkwardly, cap in hand, and changing it from right to left and back.
“Quite well, thank ye, miss, and sent her dooty to you.”
“I’m very glad, Woodham. Remember me kindly to Sarah, and tell her I shall call at the cottage soon.”