Mr. Potter: He’s took an oath to put down “the trade,” d’ye see. Potter be a inoffensive creater’ as never drawed steel in his life—except mebbe now and then—I prefers a short bat ... and never fired a shot in all my days—except p’r’aps once or twice an’ then only when com-pelled.... Ah, a peaceable man be Potter, but....
Here Mr. Potter laid finger to lip and looked slantwise at Sir John beneath lifted eyebrow. And then old Penelope called them; and, glancing round, Sir John was amazed to behold her clad in a sumptuous gown whose voluminous silken folds lent her a strangely arresting dignity, while upon her snowy hair was a mob cap marvellously belaced.
“Aye, it be real silk, young man!” quoth she, with a little shake in her voice. “List to it rustle!” And sighing ecstatically, she spread out the rich folds with her gnarled old fingers. “There bean’t a grander dress nowhere.... Jarge give it me las’ Christmas. ’Tidn’t often I wears it, no ... but when I die, I’ll be buried in it—won’t I, Jarge?”
“Aye, aye, Pen!” nodded Mr. Potter. “But, Lord—’oo’s a-talkin’ o’ dyin’! Be the kittle abilin’?”
“Aye, lad, tea’s ready. As for you, young man, if you’ll drink wi’ me as they name witch, an’ bean’t fruttened lest I blast ’ee wi’ a look o’ my eye—come your ways to tea.”
Following her into the cottage, Sir John beheld yet other unexpected wonders, as the handleless cups of exquisite ware, the beautiful Chinese teapot, the tray of priceless Chinese lacquer.
“Aha, you may stare, young man!” nodded old Penelope. “There bean’t a lady in arl the land can show ’ee sech chaney as mine.... Jarge give it tu me!”
“Why, ye see, sir,” added Mr. Potter apologetically, “I bean’t married!”
“An’ look at the lace in my cap, young man ... real French point—arl from Jarge.”
“Why, ye see, sir,” quoth Mr. Potter again, “I aren’t got no sweet’eart!”