“Now, if it had been Hallam, you might have spoken.—Ah! Betsy, what are you shying at?—Keep that apron fastened, will you? What are you going to do?”
“I was only unfastening it ready—in case I had to jump out,” faltered Mrs Luttrell.
“Jump out! Why, mother! There, you are growing into quite a nervous old woman. You stop indoors too much.”
“But is there any danger, my dear?”
“Danger! Why, look for yourself. The mare saw a wheelbarrow, and she was frightened. Don’t be so silly.”
“Well, I’ll try not,” said Mrs Luttrell, smoothing down the cloth fold over the leather apron, but looking rather flushed and excited as the cob trotted rapidly over the road. “You were saying, dear, something about Mr Hallam.”
“Yes. What of him?”
“Of course we should not have sent him to the house when Milly was alone.”
“Humph! I suppose not. I say, old lady, you’re not planning match-making to hook that good-looking cash-box, are you?”
“What, Mr Hallam, dear? Oh, don’t talk like that.”