"What ails you, little master?" cried the widow.
But he continued pointing in silence at the old man, who was leering and smirking and ogling, in evident delight at being the centre of attention.
"He's scared by Portunus, the weaver," tittered the maids.
And the words "Portunus," "old Portunus the weaver," were bandied from mouth to mouth down the two sides of the table.
"Yes, Portunus, the weaver," cried the widow, in a loud voice, a hint of menace in her eye. "And who, I should like to know, does not love Portunus, the weaver?"
The maids hung their heads, the men sniggered deprecatingly.
"Well?" challenged the widow.
Silence.
"And who," she continued indignantly, "is the handiest most obliging fellow to be found within twenty miles?"
She glared down the table, and then repeated her question.