The gardener addressed his subordinates with a “mister.” It made himself more important; marked the distance between them more emphatically.
“Yes, Mr. MacSweeny; just to take up a young spruce for she.”
“Ta-ta!” said the Scotchman condescendingly, and passed on.
“He’s been a bit snuffy wi’ me,” said Tom confidingly to his companion. “What it’s all about I can’t tell. Perhaps he guesses I knows too much; but Lor’! I’m not one to blab.”
“Perhaps he’s a little jealous,” said Mary slily; “folk do say he has been thinking about Bella. But there—’tain’t no good dreaming of going against you, Tom.”
“I don’t give no heed to them tales. People will talk. Besides, if he were lookin’ out for a Missus MacSweeny, I reckon he’d go after widders. Ain’t he a widderer hisself?”
“That don’t follow,” said Mary.
“Don’t it? Then it ort!” retorted Tom.
“There—don’t be snuffy wi’ me!” said Mary.
The getting up of a suitable tree and its transport to the cottage of the Mauduits was not a matter of two minutes, nor of half-an-hour.