“He’ll come back,” said Ann.
“Don’t you go counting on that, my pretty. He ain’t our class, and never could be. You’ve only to see him drink to know that. If he was our class he’d be worse’n the rest of us. Don’t you go counting on that.”
“He’ll come back. He ain’t a sneak.”
“When it comes to women,” said Martin, “any man’s neither more nor less than what he can be. But if you find it lonely waiting you can come and sit with me. I ain’t a-going to see you let down, my pretty, not for want of money or a helping hand. If your heart’s set on him, I can’t do nothing there; but, Lor’ bless you, hearts ain’t everything.”
“Good for you, Mr. Martin,” said Kilner.
“Oh, I know a thing or two.” The fat man winked. “You don’t have to do with ’orses for nothing. I had a ’orse once took a uncommon fancy to a goat there was in the mews. Had to see it every day. The goat was sold, and that there ’orse pined away. I kept on a-telling of him that no goat in the world was worth losing a feed of oats for, and at last he got so precious hungry he believed it, and I never did see a ’orse so glad to eat. Fancies come and go, but your belly lets you know it’s there till you die. Will you come in, too, Mr. Kilner?”
“No, thanks. I must get to bed early. Work in the morning.”
When Kilner had gone, old Martin said to Ann with an affectionate touch on her arm:
“That young man has a ’ead screwed on his shoulders.”
“He’s all head,” said Ann, “and I hate him.”