“And the banns go up next week,” murmured the boarding-master to himself. “Well, well.”
“'Ave you got anything to say agin it?” demanded Mr. Kybird.
“Cert'nly not,” replied the other. “On'y don't blame me when it's too late; that's all.”
Mr. Kybird, staring at him wrathfully, turned this dark saying over in his mind. “Too late for wot?” he inquired.
“Ah!” said Nathan Smith, slowly. “Nice and fresh after the rain, ain't it? As I come along all the little dickey-birds—”
“Drat the little dickey-birds,” interrupted Mr. Kybird, with sudden violence. “If you've got anything to say, why don't you say it like a man?”
The parlour door opened suddenly before the other could reply, and revealed the face of Mrs. Kybird. “Wot are you two a-quarrelling about?” she demanded. “Why don't you come inside and sit down for a bit?”