“It’s a funny thing miss didn’t want to see the loidy,” observed Howlie to Llewellyn after the phaëton had rolled away. Since his illness he had become very much at home with the young man.
“Does she like visitors?” inquired Llewellyn, with a view of drawing him out.
“She don’t like yew,” said Howlie.
“How do you know?”
Howlie looked infinitely subtle, as subtle as a person with a rabbit mouth can look—but took no notice of the question.
“She loikes the young general, though.”
“Who?” asked his companion, with much interest.
“Yewre brother. ’Im as is with the soljers an’ comes ’ere now an’ again. Oi saw them coming down the fields the other day. They’d been sitting up by the cherry-tree. ’E was lookin’ at ’er soime as father looks at a jug o’ beer after e’s dug six foot of a groive.”
“You talk too much, boy,” observed Llewellyn, with an attempt at dignity.