'It's a bore; but I dare say we can find something to do,' said Sarah, after looking out of the window and seeing no prospect of better weather.
'It 'as turned quite cold; one might think it was autumn,' complained Mrs Clay, rubbing her hands. 'That's the worst o' our climate, never two days alike. I'm sure I'm starved in this dress; an' so must you be, my dear,' she added to Horatia. 'Starved' is Yorkshire for 'cold.'
'I'm dreadfully sorry,' said Horatia, who was always in extremes of joy or sorrow; 'because of Mr Clay's lovely plan, which can't come off now.'
'What was it?' demanded Sarah, who imagined from her way of speaking that Horatia knew and liked the plan.
'I don't in the least know; but I'm quite sure it would have been lovely, and now we can't do it,' she replied.
'I'm not so sure about that,' remarked Mrs Clay.
'Oh, what is it? Do tell me!' cried Horatia.
'I don't think Mr Clay would like me to; but I think 'e'll be in by the time you've 'ad your breakfast, an' before it, if you go on as you're doin', my dear, not eatin' anythin',' she put in; for Horatia, in her excitement, had put down her knife and fork, and was letting her breakfast get cold while she questioned her hostess.
'Hasn't father gone to the mill?' asked Sarah.
'No; 'e's busy over this plan,' replied his wife, smiling at Horatia, and adding, 'It's not often 'e breaks 'is 'abit of goin' to the mill by nine o'clock, for all 'e's so rich, so you must take that as a compliment, my dear.'