“Aye, smooth, I suppose?” he asked, taking it from the shelf.
“No, I think I’ll take it rough, for that’s the style now, whatever.”
“Oh! very well.”
“Been takin’ photographs lately, Pedr?”
“Not many.”
“I’m thinkin’ you’ll be goin’ down Caerhun way some day soon,” she continued, her pink face wrinkling with mingled mirth and devilry; “it’s very pretty there, good for an artist like you.”
Pedr folded in the ends of the parcel and said nothing.
“Aye,” she went on, “an’ there’s an old church there, with a bell-tower that looks over the wall like an eye. It don’t wink, Pedr, but I’m thinkin’, indeed, it could tell a good deal, if it had a mind to. It’s next to the church the Parrys used to live.”
Pedr, tying the parcel and snapping the string, maintained his silence.
“It’s there old Parry used to be drunk as a faucet; aye, an’, Pedr,” she whispered, “I could be tellin’ you somethin’ else. Nelw Parry——”