"You're a fine maid," he said.
"Be I, sir?" said Thomasine, beginning to tremble. Pendoggat was her superior. He was the tenant of Helmen Barton, a commoner, the owner of sheep and bullocks, and married, or at least she supposed he was. She felt somehow it was not right he should say such a thing to her.
"Going to chapel Sunday night?" he went on, with his head on one side, and his face as immobile as a mask.
"Ees," murmured Thomasine, forgetting the "sir" somehow. The question was such a familiar one that she did not remember for the moment the standing of the speaker. This was the man who had drenched her with hell-fire from the pulpit.
"How do ye come home? By the road or moor?"
"The moor, if 'tis fine, sir. I walks with Willum."
"Young Pugsley?"
"Ees, sir."
"You're too good for him. You're too fine a maid for that hind. You won't walk with him Sunday night. I'll see you home."
"Ees, sir," was all Thomasine could say. She was only a farm-maid. She had to do as she was told.