"Edmund!—I want to speak to you!"
Melrose, who was hanging, frowning and absorbed, over a carpenter who was freeing what seemed to be an old clock from the elaborate swathings of paper and straw in which it had been packed, looked up with annoyance.
"Can't you see, Netta, that I'm very busy?"
"I can't help it!—it's about baby."
With a muttered "D—n!" Melrose came toward her.
"What on earth do you want?"
Netta looked at him defiantly.
"I want to be told whenever the cart goes into Pengarth—there were lots of things to get for baby. And I must have something here that I can drive myself. We can't be cut off from everything."
"Give your orders to Mrs. Dixon then about the cart," said Melrose angrily. "What has it to do with me? As for a carriage, I have no money to spend on any nonsense of the kind. We can do perfectly well without it."
"I only want a little pony-cart—you could get it second-hand for ten or twelve pounds—and the farmer has got a pony."