“Look here, Lizzie Fripp,” he said authoritatively; “you be a trewth-tellin’ maid, an’ ye’ll gi’e me a straightfor’ard answer. Tell me plain! I was reckoned a fairish good-lookin’ chap till now, but this accident has spiled my looks for me. Tell me the trewth. Am I such an object that any maid would run away from me, or is it jest Susan that’s extra pertic’lar?”
Lizzie raised her honest brown eyes and gazed at him steadily.
“You’re not an object, Mr. Locke,” she said thoughtfully. “Dear no, not at all an object. I think a body ’ud soon get used to—to one side bein’ a little different from t’other. But some maids takes notions, ye see. My mother said she never could abide red hair. If father’d hev been a red-haired man she’d never ha’ married him. Now I think ’tis much the same as any other colour.”
Tom slowly straightened himself. A smile was hovering about his mouth.
“You think I’d look better with a glass eye?” he inquired.
“Well,” returned Lizzie dispassionately, “I think it ’ud be very nice for Sundays, Mr. Locke. Sundays an’ market-days, or when ye was goin’ for a drive in the trap, or such like.”
“I see,” said Tom, meditatively stroking his beard. “P’r’aps I’ll talk to doctor about it.”
“Oh, do,” she urged eagerly. “I d’ ’low Susan ’ll be real pleased.”
“Ah!” said Tom. “Be ye goin’ home now, Lizzie?”
“Yes. I only came this way to see you.”