“I'm not a likely man for that, squire; but there's no telling where gossips get their crumbs. It's about. It's about.”
“About my son?” cried the squire.
“My daughter!”
“Oh, well, good-day,” the squire resumed more cheerfully. “I'll go down to Fairly, and you can't ask more than that.”
When the farmer was out of the house and out of hearing, he rebuked Robert for the inconsiderate rashness of his behaviour, and pointed out how he, the farmer, by being patient and peaceful, had attained to the object of his visit. Robert laughed without defending himself.
“I shouldn't ha' known ye,” the farmer repeated frequently; “I shouldn't ha' known ye, Robert.”
“No, I'm a trifle changed, may be,” Robert agreed. “I'm going to claim a holiday of you. I've told Rhoda that if Dahlia's to be found, I'll find her, and I can't do it by sticking here. Give me three weeks. The land's asleep. Old Gammon can hardly turn a furrow the wrong way. There's nothing to do, which is his busiest occupation, when he's not interrupted at it.”
“Mas' Gammon's a rare old man,” said the farmer, emphatically.
“So I say. Else, how would you see so many farms flourishing!”
“Come, Robert: you hit th' old man hard; you should learn to forgive.”