"Well, I don't know as I'm altogether surprised at that." Bill's eyes rested thoughtfully on Lucy's bare leg, ornamented with a flashing anklet. "You couldn't 'ardly expect it, could you? But we can easy change that, you know. It'll mean you 'avin Eustace up again, but after all that's 'is look-out. 'E ought to get things right first time. If 'e won't, 'e must take the consequences. You can 'ave all these girls dressed in nice black dresses, an' caps an' aprons--except my Lucy o' course. They won't change you, will they, my dear?" He stirred Lucy gently with his foot, and she sprang up ready to perform her usual task. Finding her master's flagon still full, she sank back again into her place with a puzzled but still adoring smile. "What's the good ..." began Alf. "An' then," pursued Bill, taking no notice whatever of the interruption, "we'll 'ave some furniture in, an' about time too. Then what can the parson's wife 'ave to say, eh?" "But what ..." began Alf. "Mind you," Bill continued serenely, "you'll 'ave to tell Eustace just exactly what you want. It's no good leaving it to 'im--we know 'ow much good 'is ideas are. Tell 'im what you wants an' see you gets it." "Yes, but 'ow much good will that do? The ole woman's gone off ravin' like a blinkin' lunatic, an' once she gets round to ole FitzPeter all the furniture in the world won't do us no good. 'Ow can we stop 'er tellin' 'im?" "Easy enough," said Bill with unabated confidence. "Strike 'er dumb!" "Eh?" Alf's eyes and mouth opened to their utmost extent. "Tell Eustace to make 'er dumb. Then she _can't_ tell anybody anything." "She could write it," said Alf, after consideration. "Paralyze 'er, then," retorted Bill callously. "Even then, 'er 'usband'd know. 'Sides, that ain't goin' to do us no good. The neighbor'ood 'ud be bound to notice it if she came 'ere an' then went dumb an' paralyzed--specially if we 'ad to do it to the parson too." "True for you, Alf--it wouldn't make us what you might call popular." Bill took a long drink, to assist thought. The faithful Lucy uncurled herself once more and left the room with the empty flagon. "Good girl," said Bill, looking after her. "She'd make a fine wife, she would. I ain't goin' to 'ave no cap an' apron put on my Lucy, Alf; she can keep out o' the way when there's company about, but I'm goin' to keep 'er dressed as she is, see?" "Seems to me," Alf answered crossly, "if you don't 'urry up an' think what's to be done, you an' your Lucy'll 'ave to part company any'ow. Once that ole woman gets to Ditchwater Park she'll make these 'ere parts too 'ot to 'old us. An' she must be 'arf way there by now." Bill gave a scornful laugh. "I'm ashamed of you, Alf, gettin' the wind up like that. I am, really. Tell you what to do. Tell Eustace to fix 'er whenever she tries to talk or write about us--she an' the parson, too. Then she can't do no 'arm to anybody! 'Ow's that for a scheme, eh?"