'Have you seen your sister, Milly, or your father, since your return?' I asked coldly.
'They'll keep, Maud, never mind 'em; it be you I want to see—it be you I wor thinkin' on a' the time. I tell ye, lass, I'm all'ays a thinkin' on ye.'
'I think you ought to go and see your father; you have been away, you say, some time. I don't think it is respectful,' I said, a little sharply.
'If ye bid me go I'd a'most go, but I could na quite; there's nout on earth I would na do for you, Maud, excep' leaving you.'
'And that,' I said, with a petulant flush, 'is the only thing on earth I would ask you to do.'
'Blessed if you baint a blushin', Maud,' he drawled, with an odious grin.
His stupidity was proof against everything.
'It is too bad!' I muttered, with an indignant little pat of my foot and mimic stamp.
'Well, you lasses be queer cattle; ye're angry wi' me now, cos ye think I got into mischief—ye do, Maud; ye know 't, ye buxsom little fool, down there at Wolverhampton; and jest for that ye're ready to turn me off again the minute I come back; 'tisn't fair.'
'I don't understand you, sir; and I beg that you'll leave me.'