“Who is this man that shows himself in the neighbourhood?” asked Tod, putting the question to her in a slow, marked manner, his dark eyes, stern then, fixed on hers.
“Johnny, those cherries don’t look ripe. Try the summer apples.”
It was of no use at any time trying to put aside Tod. Before I had answered her that the cherries were ripe enough for me, Tod began at her again.
“Can you tell me who he is?”
“Dear me, no,” she faintly said. “I can’t tell you anything about it.”
“Nor what he wants?”
“No. Won’t you take some wine, Joseph?”
“I shall make it my business to inquire, then,” said Tod, disregarding the wine and everything else. “The first time I come across the man, unless he gives me a perfectly satisfactory answer as to what he may be doing here on our land, I’ll horse-whip him.”
Mrs. Todhetley put the trembling fingers of her left hand into the finger-glass, and dried them. I don’t believe she knew what she was about more than a baby.
“The man is nothing to you, Joseph. Why should you interfere with him?”