“Mistis be mighty glad ter see you an’ Marse Edmun’. She down at de fattenin’-coop countin’ de tuckeys, kase we didn’t have no luck wid de tuckey-aigs lars’ season, an’ de wuffless hen-tuckeys—”
So much for Simon Peter, when Delilah’s voice broke in:
“Miss Kitty, ’twan’ de hen-tuckeys ’tall. Ef de gobblers wuz ter take turns, like de pigeons, a-settin’ on de aigs—”
“I allus did think dem he-pigeons look like de foolishest critters I ever see a-settin’ on de nes’ while de she-pigeons hoppin’ roun’ de groun’ ’stid o’ mindin’ dey business—”
“You are right, Simon Peter,” answered Mrs. Sherrard, still invisible. “I wonder that Delilah hasn’t profited by Mrs. Temple’s example. You’ve got visitors. Whose hat is this?”
“Marse George Throckmorton’s an’ Marse Temple Freke’s. I gwi’ tell mistis you here. Marse c’yarn leave de charmber yet, he gout so bad.”
Mrs. Sherrard marched in, followed by Edmund Morford. She wore her most commanding and hostile air. She had pooh-poohed Mrs. Temple’s dread of Freke, but she meant to give him to understand that his goings on, and particularly his matrimonial difficulties, were perfectly well known in the Severn neighborhood, and properly reprobated. So she shook hands all around, followed by the Rev. Edmund, who never trusted himself at Barn Elms, with those two pretty young women, alone and unprotected.
“I understand you have bought Wareham,” remarked Mrs. Sherrard, tartly, to Freke.
“I have,” answered Freke, very mildly.