“But I am a farmer—and proud of it.”
“Of course. It is the fashion to farm nowadays. It is quite genteel if—if you lose money over it.”
He seemed puzzled at her pert extravagance, and said stolidly that he was glad that his farming paid—every Jayne was a good farmer; it was in the blood.
“Well,” said Pamela, with a shrug and a droll smile, “you can get the effect anyhow. We must put up with prosperity. There are many things I’ll do, if you’ll let me. The housemaid must wear a cap with lappets in the afternoons. She should wait at table, and bring your newspaper in on a tray; letters, too, when there are any. I’ll train her. Of course, Gainah does not know how; she will be grateful to me for hints. You are very slow down here in Sussex. Did I tell you that I lived for six months in a boarding-house?” There was the faintest quiver of her heavy lids. “I carved and kept accounts. Things were done very well there. I have moved about the world and kept my eyes open.”
While she was making this smug little speech Jethro looked at her with satisfaction. She was a woman of wit, of knowledge. Her glib tongue was refreshing and piquant after the demure monosyllables and faint opinions—always watered by Mamma—of the Liddleshorn damsels.
They were smoothly clattering down the High Street.
“Furniture.” Pamela pointed to the upholsterer’s. “There should be oak in the dining-room.”
“There is oak at Folly Corner.”
“Is that oak?” She opened her big eyes and arched her faint dun brows. “Then it is different. We had a beautiful carved dinner-wagon at the boarding-house.”
“It was my father’s grandfather’s furniture, and his grandfather’s before him,” Jethro said conservatively.