Luke. I never heard tell of young chicken being ate up at Ox Lease afore July was in.
George. Nor me neither, master. Never heared nor seed such a thing. But mistress, her says, you can’t sit a maid from town at table unless there be poultry afore of she. They be rare nesh in their feeding, maids from town, so mistress do say.
Miles. That just brings us to our little matter, George. When is it that you expect the young lady?
George. The boxes of they be stacked mountains high in the bedroom since yesterday. And I count as the maids will presently come on their own feet from where the morning coach do set them down.
Luke. Nay, but there’s only one maid what’s expected.
George. Miss Clara, what’s master’s sister; and the serving wench of she.
Miles. Well, George, ’twas a great day for your master when old Madam Lovel took little Miss Clara to be bred up as one of the quality.
George. A water plant do grow best by the stream, and a blossom, from the meadows, midst the grass. Let each sort bide in the place where ’twas seeded.
Miles. No, no, George, you don’t know what you’re talking about. A little country wench may bloom into something very modish and elegant, once taken from her humble home and set amongst carpets of velvet and curtains of satin. You’ll see.
George. ’Twould be a poor thing for any one to be so worked upon by curtains, nor yet carpets, master.