'Never tell your tidings,' said Vessons, 'till you meet the king.'
'Martha!'
Mrs. Marston stood at the kitchen door in the most splendid of her caps—a pagoda of white lace—and her voice was, as she afterwards said, 'quite sharp,' its mellifluousness being very slightly reduced.
Vessons rose, touching his hair.
'What is it, my good man?'
'A bit of news, mum.'
'For my son?'
'Ah!'
'You may go, Martha,' said Mrs. Marston, and Martha went without alacrity.
'Now.' Mrs. Marston spoke encouragingly.