“Good evening, missis,” said he, as he entered the door; “it’s a fine night.”
“Yes,” said she, and went on stirring.
“But it will maybe rain,” said he, fidgeting from one foot to the other.
“Maybe,” said she.
“And perhaps it won’t,” said he, and looked out of the window.
“Perhaps not,” said she.
He scratched his head and twisted his hat.
“Well,” said he, “I can’t think of anything else about the weather, but let me see—the crops are getting on fine.”
“Yes,” said she.
“And—and—the beasts are fattening,” said he.