"Nay, Mr. Bonnithorne, there's ower much nastment in the weather yet."
The gentleman took off his silk hat and mopped his forehead. His hair was thin and of a pale yellow, and was smoothed flat on his brow.
"You surprise me! I thought the weather perfect. See how blue the sky is."
"That doesn't argy. It might be better with never a blenk of blue. It was rayder airy yesterday, and last night the moon got up as blake and yellow as May butter."
The smile was perpetual on the gentleman's face. It showed his teeth constantly.
"You dalesmen are so weather-wise."
The voice was soft and womanish. There was a little laugh at the end of each remark.
"We go by the moon in firing, sir," the charcoal-burner answered, "Last night it rose sou'-west, and that doesn't mean betterment, though it's quiet enough now. There'll be clashy weather before nightfall."
The girl strayed away into the thicket, and startled a woodcock out of a heap of dead oak leaves. The gentleman followed her with his eyes. They were very small and piercing eyes, and they blinked frequently.
"Your daughter does not look very well, Matthew."