Her husband, who was very busy, nodded again.
"It wouldn't make no difference to young Pascoe's chance, anyway," said Mrs. Quince, thoughtfully.
Mr. Quince continued his labours. "Why?" he inquired, at last.
His wife smiled and tossed her head.
"Young Pascoe's no chance against our Ned," she said, swelling with maternal pride.
"Eh?" said the shoemaker, laying down his knife and fork. "Our Ned?"
"They are as fond of each other as they can be," said Mrs. Quince, "though I don't suppose Farmer Rose'll care for it; not but what our Ned's as good as he is."
"Is Ned up there now?" demanded the shoemaker, turning pale, as the mirthful face of Mr. Garnham suddenly occurred to him.
"Sure to be," tittered his wife. "And to think o' poor young Pascoe shut up in that stable while he's courting Celia!"
Mr. Quince took up his knife and fork again, but his appetite had gone. Whoever might be paying attention to Miss Rose at that moment he felt quite certain that it was not Mr. Ned Quince, and he trembled with anger as he saw the absurd situation into which the humorous Mr. Rose had led him. For years Little Haven had accepted his decisions as final and boasted of his sharpness to neighbouring hamlets, and many a cottager had brought his boots to be mended a whole week before their time for the sake of an interview.