"'Cos she don't go to church?" suggested Dan Ridley, who as usual was one of the tap-room talkers. Again Mr. Netlips nodded.
"Well," said Dan, "she came to church once an' brought her friends— -"
"Late,—very late,"—interposed Mr. Netlips, solemnly—"The tardiness of her entrance was marked by the strongest decorum. The strongest, the most open decorum! Deplorable decorum!"
"What's decorum?" enquired Mr. Buggins, anxiously.
Mr. Netlips waved one fat hand expressively.
"Decorum,"—he said—"is—well!—decorum."
Buggins scratched his head dubiously. Dan Ridley looked perplexed. There was a silence,—the men listening to the wailing of a rising wind that was beginning to sweep round the house and whistle down the big open chimney, accompanied by pattering drops of rain.
"Summer's sheer over,"—said a labourer, lifting his head from his tankard of ale—"Howsomever, we're all safe this winter in the worst o' weather. Rents are all down at 'arf what they was under Oliver Leach, thanks to the new lady, so whether she's a decorum or not don't matter to me. She's a right good sort—so here's to her!"
And he drained off his ale at one gulp with a relish, several men present following his example.
"Passon Walden,"—began Dan Ridley—"Passon Walden—-"