"Then you ought to be more ashamed of yourself than ever!" she retorted. "We're mates, you and Garth and I: nothing matters, so long as we are together."
"Not even scrubbing?"
"No," she said. "Nor ploughing, Tom?"
"Certainly not. Nor cooking?"
"Cooking might be fun. What about milking?"
"I learned to milk in my extreme youth," said he proudly. "That's a detail. But—washing?"
"It's done in the best families," she said. "Counted out. How about clearing land?"
"I will do it with my little hatchet," said her husband. "Washing-up, Aileen?"
"Ugh!" she said. "Even in this uplifted moment I can't pretend I'm going to enjoy greasy dishes. Never mind—they'll get done. We won't think about them. Anything else?"
"Lots, I'm certain. What if the sheep get foot-rot, and the hens develop pip? Or is it the other way round? Could you manage a hen with foot-rot?"