“She be silky and soft to handle,” went on the idiot, “and her, up at the House, be no contrary, or I’m darned mistaken.”
Mr. Goring expressed his satisfaction at his friend’s intelligence by giving him a push that nearly threw him backwards.
“And I’ll tell you this, my boy,” he remarked confidentially, surveying the long line of well-filled hutches, “we’ve never yet bought such a rabbit, as this foreign one will turn out, or you and I be damned fools.”
“The young lady’ll get mighty fond of these ’ere long-ears, looks so to me,” observed the youth. “Hope she won’t be a feeding ’em with wet cabbage, same as maids most often do.”
The farmer grew even more confidential, drawing close to his assistant and addressing him in the tone customary with him on market-days, when feeling the ribs of fatted cattle.
“That same young lady is coming up here this morning, Bert,” he remarked significantly. “The squire’s giving her a note to bring along.”
“And you be going to bring matters to a head, master,” rejoined the boy. “That’s wise and thoughtful of ’ee, choosing time, like, and season, as the Book says. Maids be wonderful sly when the sun’s down, while of mornings they be meek as guinea-fowls.”
The appearance of the Priory servant—no very demure figure—put a sudden stop to these touching confidences.
“Miss Lacrima, with a note, in the front Parlour!” the damsel shouted.
“You needn’t call so loud, girl,” grumbled the farmer. “And how often must I tell you to say ‘Miss Traffio,’ not ‘Miss Lacrima’?”