‘’Ees, he did use to say you was a wonderful manager,’ said Isaac, disregarding the latter part of the sentence. ‘Many a time he’ve a-told me that you had n’t got no equal as a manager.’
Sentiment was evidently not to be the order of the day, but here, at least, was an opportunity of introducing the little matter of business which weighed so heavily on Rosalie’s conscience.
‘I think,’ she said, diffidently, ‘he would say I was wise in carrying out this new plan.’
‘What new plan?’ inquired Isaac, pausing with his handkerchief halfway to his eyes, and turning towards her sternly, though the tears hung upon his grizzled lashes.
‘Why, the one I spoke to you of—about doing away with the pigs, you know,’ she returned faintly.
‘That there notion that I gi’e ye my advice agen?’ said Sharpe grimly.
‘Yes,’ hesitatingly. ‘I thought it over, as you told me to, and I did n’t think I could manage differently. I find I can sell the pigs all right, and Mr. Hardy has promised to try and dispose of my Blue Vinney cheeses.’
Isaac blew his nose, returned his handkerchief to his pocket, and stood up.
‘I’m glad to hear as ye can manage so well,’ he said sarcastically. ‘You don’t want no advice, that’s plain; and I sha’n’t never offer you none agen. I’ll wish ye good day, Mrs. Fiander.’
‘Oh, don’t go away like that,’ cried she piteously. ‘Please don’t be offended with me. Such an old friend—’