“Yes,” said Clare, looking at him. “Not many people would have cared for the job, I think.”
Calladine laughed negligently.
“You always had a weakness for your poacher,” he replied.
“Would you be wanting me any more, madam?” enquired Mrs. Quince.
“If Lovel’s wife is in need of anything I can send her, please let me know, Mrs. Quince.”
“Yes, madam. Very good of you, madam.”
When the housekeeper had left the room, Calladine said, “I never question your actions, as you know, Clare, but do you think it judicious to encourage these people? The woman was married not very long before ourselves, yet she already gives birth to a baby; the man is well-known as an undesirable in the whole neighbourhood.”
Clare went up to him. “Oh, Richard,” she cried gaily, “are they worth talking about any longer?” She pushed him down into his armchair and knelt at his feet. “What are we going to do to-day, tell me?”
“To do?” repeated Calladine in surprise. “Why, what is there that we could possibly do on a day like this? What a restless spirit it is—always crying out to be up and doing—when I am quite content if I may sit and look into your eyes.”