“Oi don’t, mostly. But oi ’aven’t no objection to talkin’ to yew,” said Howlie reassuringly.
“Miss is a rare one,” he began again, “can’t moike nothin’ out of ’er. One day she’ll be off walkin’ an’ not get ’ome till dark an’ long after. ’Nother day, if Parson do call ’er to come out i’ the orchard, she’ll go steppin’ loike a turkey i’ the long grass. ’Froid of ’er dress, looks loike, an’ yet oi’ve seed ’er come back with ’er petticoats scram-full o’ broiers an’ mud.”
“Well, she knows her own business best and it’s none of ours,” said Llewellyn, inwardly curious and outwardly correct.
“Yewre roight there. She knows ’er own moind, she does. Moy! she was pleased when she went wi’ Parson to Waterchurch, an’ yew should a’ seen ’er when she come back, too. Nothin’ weren’t good enough for ’er. Ye’d a’ thought the ’ouse was a work’ouse, an’ me an’ cook an’ Parson was the paupers in it, she was that ’oigh wi’ us.”
Llewellyn turned his back. He did not want to laugh, yet his mouth widened in spite of him.
“Now, stop talking,” he said, “you’ve had enough excitement to-day and you’ll get tired.”
“She’s after the young general,” added Howlie coarsely.
But his information was not up to date.