“If it be silly to want to kiss ’ee, I be the biggest fule in the parish. ’Ee didn’t want coaxin’ las’ night, Prue.”
To this Prudence replied with alluring directness and simplicity.
“Be good, Alfie. If you kiss me afore ‘elevenses’ my cheeks ’ll be red as fire, and Uncle Ben ’ll ask questions.”
Alfred let this soak in, as he rubbed the shining tankard. Then he spoke decisively.
“I want un to ask questions. Sooner the better. Our gettin’ wed depends, seemin’ly, upon your Uncle Ben.”
The significance of his tone was not lost upon the maid. Her straight brows puckered slightly as she asked:
“But—why? You said that las’ night, you did.”
Alfred laid down the tankard and held aloft a handsome silver inkstand.
“It is here, Prue.” Then he read aloud an inscription. “‘Presented to Benoni Fishpingle, after fifty years’ service, by his affectionate friends, Sir Geoffrey and Lady Pomfret.’ Affectionate! Ah-h-h-h! They do think the world o’ Benoni Fishpingle, they do. Now, Prue, you coax your Uncle Ben, and then he’ll downscramble Squire. Tell un that we be a fine up-standin’ couple, a credit to Nether Applewhite.”
“That don’t need tellin’, Alfie.”