“Do you wish me to tell you, ma’am?” he said at last.
“Tell me? of course,” said Mrs Glaire, impatiently. “How are matters?”
“Bad.”
“Bad? What do you mean?”
“Well, mum, not bad as to work; ’cause there’s plenty of that, and nothing in the way of contracts as is like to suffer by waiting.”
“Then, what do you mean?”
“Well, you see, ma’am, Mr Richard don’t get on wi’ the men. He wants to have it all his own way, and they want to have it all theirn. Well, of course that wean’t work; so what’s wanted is for the governor to give way just a little, and then they’d give way altogether.”
“But I’m sure my son Richard’s management is excellent,” said Mrs Glaire, whose lip quivered a little as she drew herself up with dignity, and began a fresh row of her knitting.
Banks coughed slightly, and remained silent.
“Don’t you think so, Banks?”