“Wouldn’t pay—I’d better do the head-work, and have a man attend to the cows.”
Mrs. Bonstone pressed her pretty lips together, and went on, “The horses, the cows and the hens are all asleep. What would the farmer and his wife do to amuse themselves for the evening?”
“I know what the farmer would do,” said Mr. Bonstone, “he’d tot up his accounts, read the paper, and go to bed. He’d be dead tired.”
“And what would I do?” she asked.
“You’d do likewise, if you were a real farmer’s wife,” said Mr. Bonstone. “Your feet would be so sore, you couldn’t stand on them.”
“How lovely!” she exclaimed, “to be really tired.”
“What set you out to talk about this?” he inquired curiously. “You’d never live on a farm.”
“Yes, I would,” she replied earnestly, “I’m tired of balls, I’m tired of the opera, I’m tired of dances, I’m tired of dinners, I’m tired of fine dresses—I’m tired of everything I’ve had. I want something new.”
“If you want novelty,” he said breathlessly, “I’ve got that farm—I never thought you’d go on it.”