“Parfaitment; or as we say in English, neat as a trivet. If you prefer another form; nice as ninepence.”
She is pleased at his facetiousness, quite a new mode for Lewin Murdock. Coupled with his sobriety, it gives her confidence that things have gone on smoothly, and will to the end. Indeed, for some days Murdock has been a new man—acting as one with some grave affair on his hands—feat to accomplish, or negotiation to effect—resolved on carrying it to completeness.
Now, less from anxiety as to what he has been saying at the Welsh Harp, than to know what he has there heard said by others, she further interrogates him:—“Where have you been meanwhile, monsieur?”
“Part of the time at the Ferry; the rest of it I’ve spent on paths and roads coming and going. I went up to the Harp to hear what I could hear.”
“And what did you hear?”
“Nothing much to interest us. As you know, Rugg’s is an out of the way corner—none more so on the Wye—and the Llangorren news hasn’t reached it. The talk of the Ferry folk is all about the occurrence at Abergann, which still continues to exercise them. The other don’t appear to have got much abroad, if at all, anywhere—for reasons told Father Rogier by your countrywoman, Clarisse, with whom he held an interview sometime during the afternoon.”
“And has there been no search yet?”
“Search, yes; but nothing found, and not much noise made, for the reasons I allude to.”
“What are they? You haven’t told me.”
“Oh! various. Some of them laughable enough. Whimsies of that Quixotic old lady who has been so long doing the honours at Llangorren.”