“Well!” exclaimed Mrs Banks, eagerly; “and does she like it?”
“Well—er—er—er—she’s about for and again it,” said Joe, slowly.
“Now that won’t do, Joe,” exclaimed Mrs Banks. “You can’t deceive me, and I’m not going to be put aside in that way. I know as well as if I’d ha’ been theer that she said she didn’t like.”
“Well, what does it matter about what the women think? Dick—I mean Maister Richard Glaire’s hard after her.”
“And means to marry her?” said Mrs Banks.
“Marry her? Of course. Didn’t Baxter, of Churley, marry Jane Kemp? Didn’t Bill Bradby, as was wuth fifty thousand, marry Polly Robinson of Toddlethorpe, and make a real lady of her, and she wasn’t fit to stand within ten yards o’ my Daisy.”
“Yes, go on,” said Mrs Banks. “That’s your pride.”
“Pride be blowed, it’s only a difference in money. Richard Glaire’s only my old fellow-workman’s son, and Daisy’s my daughter, and I can buy her as many silk frocks, and as many watches, and chains, and rings as any lady in the land need have,” said Joe, angrily, as he slapped his pocket. “I ain’t gone on saving for twenty years for nowt. She shan’t disgrace him when they’re married.”
“Yes, Joe, that’s your pride,” said Mrs Banks.
“Go it,” said Joe, angrily, “tant away—tant—tant—tant. I don’t keer.”