“Well, I am cunnin’; I hope I am; and you’re a little bit that way yourself, old Mildred; no fool, anyhow, that ever I could see.”
“Crafty I may be, I ha’ lived years and seen folk enough to make me, but my heart weren’t set never on pelf.
‘A thousand pounds and a bottle of hay
Is all one at doom’s-day.’”
“So it is,” said he, “but there’s a good many days ’twixt this and doom’s-day yet, and money ’ll do more than my lord’s letter, any place, and I’ll not deny I’d like Wyvern well enough if my hand was free to lay on it. But I a’ thought it well over, and it wouldn’t fit me nohow. I can’t.”
“Ye’re the first Fairfield I ever heered say that Wyvern wouldn’t fit him,” said she.
“Is that beer in the jug?” he asked, nodding toward a brown jug that stood on the dresser.
“Yes, sir. Would ye like a drink?”
“Ay, if it baint stale.”
“Fresh drew, just as you was coming in, sir,” said she, setting it down on the table. “I’ll fetch ye a glass.”