‘Yes,’ said Rosalie faintly. ‘There are piles and piles of them in the dairy; and Mr. Hardy wrote a most ill-natured letter about them, and everyone in the place will think me a fool. But it is n’t that I mind so much—I shall sell those cheeses somewhere, I suppose, and I know Mr. Hardy only sent them back out of spite because I would n’t marry John—’
‘Ah,’ put in Isaac, interested; ‘John Hardy axed ye, did he? And you would n’t have ’en?’
‘Of course not,’ she returned petulantly.
‘Well, Mrs. F.,’ said Isaac, leaning forward in his chair, and speaking solemnly, ‘ye mid ha’ done worse nor take him. ’T is in my mind,’ he went on emphatically, ‘as soon or late ye’ll have to take a second. But, tell me, what was it as upset ye so much to-day?’
‘I am almost ashamed to say it. Sam Belbin—you know Sam, that common lad that I made cowman out of pure kindness and because I thought him faithful—he—he—that lout, has actually dared to make love to me!’
‘Well, now,’ commented Isaac, nodding.
‘Are you not amazed? Did you ever hear of such impudence? He dared to call me “my dear”; and he seemed to think that I, his mistress, had actually encouraged him! He said something about my dropping a hint. But I soon let him see what I thought of him. I packed him off on the moment!’
‘Did ye?’ said Isaac. ‘Well, my dear—I beg pardon—Mrs. Fiander, I should say—’
‘Oh, of course,’ she put in quickly, ‘I don’t mind your saying my dear—’t is a very different matter.’
‘Well, as I was a-sayin’,’ pursued the farmer, ignoring these niceties, ‘I bain’t altogether so very much surprised. I’ve a-heard some queer talk about you and Sam Belbin—only this very day I’ve a-heard queer talk—and, to say the truth, that were the reason why I looked in this arternoon—I thought it best not to wait till Sunday. I’m not one to meddle, but I thought it only kind to let ye know what folks in the village be sayin’.’