"You've stayed long enough—your saintly brother's had to do the milking."
"Where's Dennett?"
"Gone to the carols with the rest. Confounded nuisance, these primitive religious impulses of an elemental people—always seem to require an outlet at an hour when other people want their meals."
"They'll be back in time for dinner."
"I doubt it, and cook's gone too—and Tom Saville's coming, you know."
"Well, I'd better go and see after the milking."
"Don't worry. I've finished," and a dark round head came round the door, followed by a hunched figure in a cloak, from the folds of which it deprecatingly held out a pint jug.
"What's that?"
"The results of half an hour's milking. I know I should have got more, but I think the cows found me unsympathetic."
Martin burst out laughing. Ordinarily he would have felt annoyed at the prospect of having to go milking at this hour, but to-night he was expansive and good-humoured towards all beasts and men.