‘Nay, sure,’ agreed Fiander nervously; ‘’t would n’t seem at all natural.’
The sound of a light foot was now heard crossing the room overhead and descending the stairs.
‘That be her,’ remarked Elias excitedly.
The door opened, and a tall well-formed figure stood outlined against the background of fire-lit kitchen. It was almost dusk in the parlour where the two men sat.
‘Why, you’re all in the dark here!’ observed a cheerful voice. ‘Shall I light the lamp, Elias?’
‘Do, my dear, do. This here be Mr. Isaac Sharpe, our next neighbour, as you’ve a-heard me talk on often. Isaac, here’s Mrs. Fiander.’
Isaac wedged his pipe firmly into the corner of his mouth, and extended a large hand; according to the code of manners prevalent in that neighbourhood, it was not considered necessary to rise when you greeted a lady.
‘How d’ ye do, mum? I give you joy,’ he remarked.
When her hand was released Mrs. Fiander sought and found lamp and matches, and removed the shade and chimney, always with such quick decided movements that Isaac remarked to himself approvingly that she was n’t very slack about her work. She struck a match, bending over the lamp, and suddenly the light flared up. Isaac leaned forward in his favourite attitude, a hand on either knee, and took a good look at the new-comer; then drawing himself back, and removing his pipe from his mouth, he shot an indignant glance at Fiander.
‘Come, that looks more cheerful,’ remarked the unconscious bride; ‘and supper will be ready in a minute. I’ll go and get the cloth.’