"It's well the Master of Greylands didn't hear you promise the shrimps and give her them two pots of jelly, wife," cried John Bent, with a queer kind of laugh. "He'd not have liked it."
"The Master of Greylands may lump it."
"It's my belief he'd like to drive the Grey Sisters away from the place, instead of having 'em helped with pots of jelly."
"What I choose to do, I do do, thank goodness, without need to ask leave of anybody," returned independent Mrs. Bent.
"I can't think what it is puts Mr. Castlemaine against 'em," debated John Bent, thoughtfully. "Unless he fancies that if they were less busy over religion, and that, we might get the parson here more as a regular thing."
"We should be none the better for him," snapped Mrs. Bent. "For my part, I don't see much good in parsons," she candidly added. "They only get into people's way."
The silence that ensued was broken by a sound of horses in the distance, followed by the blowing of a horn. John Bent and his wife looked simultaneously at the eight-day clock, ticking in its mahogany case by the fire, and saw that it was on the stroke of four, which was the time the London coach came by. John passed through the house to the front door; his wife, after glancing at herself in the hanging glass and giving a twitch to her cap and her cherry ribbons, left her shrimps and followed him.
It was not that they expected the coach to bring visitors to them. Passengers from London and elsewhere were generally bound to Stilborough. But they as regularly went to the door to be in readiness, in case any did alight; to see it pass, and to exchange salutations with the coachman and guard.
It was an event in the Dolphin's somewhat monotonous day's existence.
"I do believe, wife, it's going to stop!" cried John.