“He has always made jokes about your advice,” she said at length, “and now everybody’ll think he’s right. I sha’n’t be able to look anybody in the face. I should have seen through it at once if it had been me. I’m going down to give him a bit o’ my mind.”
“You stay where you are,” said Mr. Quince, sharply, “and, mind, you are not to talk about it to anybody. Farmer Rose ’ud like nothing better than to see us upset about it. I ain’t done with him yet. You wait.”
Mrs. Quince, having no option, waited, but nothing happened. The following day found Ned Quince still a prisoner, and, considering the circumstances, remarkably cheerful. He declined point-blank to renounce his preposterous attentions, and said that, living on the premises, he felt half like a son-in-law already. He also complimented the farmer upon the quality of his bread.
The next morning found him still unsubdued, and, under interrogation from the farmer, he admitted that he liked it, and said that the feeling of being at home was growing upon him.
“If you’re satisfied, I am,” said Mr. Rose, grimly. “I’ll keep you here till you promise; mind that.”
“It’s a nobleman’s life,” said Ned, peeping through the window, “and I’m beginning to like you as much as my real father.”
“I don’t want none o’ yer impudence,” said the farmer, reddening.
“You’ll like me better when you’ve had me here a little longer,” said Ned; “I shall grow on you. Why not be reasonable and make up your mind to it? Celia and I have.”