“I never knows, he’s so wary; do you want to talk to him, ma’am?” said Mildred.
“Yes, I do,” said she; “hold the match now, Mrs. Tarnley, please.”
So she did, and—puff, puff, puff—about a dozen times, went the smoke, and the smoker was satisfied.
“Well, I never knows the minute, but it mightn’t be for a fortnight,” said Mrs. Tarnley.
“And when Mr. Charles Fairfield come?” asked the visitor.
“If he’s got your letter he’ll be here quick enough. If it’s missed him he mayn’t set foot in it for three months’ time. That’s how it is wi’ him,” answered Mildred.
“What news of old Harry at Wyvern?” asked the stranger.
“No news in partic’lar,” answered Mildred, “only he’s well and hearty—but that’s no news; the Fairfields is a long-lived stock, as every one knows; he’ll not lie in oak and wool for many a day yet, I’m thinkin’.”
Perhaps she had rightly guessed the object of the lady’s solicitude, for a silence followed.
“There’s a saying in my country—‘God’s children die young,’” said the tall lady.