“Sharp, mistress, bean’t nothing to it. It be terrifying sharp, and it be as keen at the back as it be at the front, and that’s what I don’t like, for it’s risky like at the corners o’ your mouth, and when a man’s mouth is already two sizes too large, it’s a pity to cut it bigger.”
“Take another, Tom,” said Mace, placing one for him.
“Thanky, mistress, that’s kindy of you,” said Tom. “Eh, but you be grown into a flower. Here, only t’other day, and I see thee balancing thyself on thy two pretty little pink legs, and couldn’t get on wi’ my work for watching thee—lest thou should fall.”
“You always were very kind to me, Tom,” said Mace, smiling.
“And always will be,” said Tom Croftly; “for, mistress, it did my heart good to see thee stick up for the master again that old Mother Goodhugh.”
“Poor weak woman!” said Mace, sadly.
“Ay, poor weak old woman; but she’s got a sore heart, mistress, like as—as—some one else have as I knows on.”
“Who’s that, Tom?” said Mace.
“Captain Culverin Carr,” said Tom, striking the table with the haft of the knife. “Ah, I don’t like dressed-up jay-birds from London.”
Mace was silent, but she looked at their old workman with eyes that were half alarmed, half angry, and hearing her father’s voice hurriedly left the kitchen.