'I do not understand you.'
'I have a capital copper warming-pan,' said Zita, 'with George and the Dragon on the lid. A stunner. I've reckoned up what meat I've ate, and all I've drunk, and the wear and tear of knives, linen, dishes, and so forth, and I think the copper warming-pan will cover it all.'
Drownlands had flung himself from his horse.
He stared at Zita; he did not in the least seize her meaning.
'If you don't care for a warming-pan,' she said, 'then there's half a dozen red plush weskits, with gilded buttons and dogs' heads on 'em—you can't wear all six, but take your choice and I'll make up with scrubbing-brushes, starch, and blue. I think the tiger-skin and a red weskit under it, and them bushy eyebrows tied in a knot as they be now, will make such a figure of you as will drive babies and girls into fits.'
'You are mocking me! You dare to do that?'
'I'm not mocking you, though I don't say I'm not inclined to whisk a red weskit before you, when you stamp and blare like a bull—for fun, you know. I love fun, but I am not mocking you. I am too much obliged to you for receiving me to do that.'
'I will turn you out—you and your van—into the winter frost.'
'When? To-morrow? I am ready to go.'