“I bain’t likely to,” answered the other in a matter-of-fact way. “Martha she bain’t given that way. And I be glad of it, now I hear what you say. I did think—but, there, that’s neither here nor there. I don’t mind sayin’ I’ve altered my mind since I’ve ’eard what you say. I likes ’em gentle, but I likes ’em spry.” The miller shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t believe ye can ’ave it both ways,” he said, with a great air of wisdom. “They ’as their feelin’s when they’s soft-like, and feelin’s is a darned noosance. Ye don’t get no dinner when feelin’s is on the go.” “I wouldn’t stomach that,” declared Hewson, shaking his head. “The smart ones they do look arter ye well, if they _don’t_ let ye call yer soul yer own.” “Blowed if I’d put up wi’ not bein’ master under my own roof, though,” declared the miller emphatically. “I’d rather find the kitchen fire out, by a long way, than ’ave my words snapped up when I be settin’ aside it. I can’t abide temper in a woman nor more nor in a ’oss!” “All the same a bit o’ warm fire and a cosy ’ome do come in comfortable when a man be feelin’ a bit rocky,” urged Hewson more decisively than usual. “No dinner—that be bad! I feel sorry for ye, neighbour, I do indeed!” The miller stood still and stared a minute, and then he broke into his loud, resonant laugh. “Oh, ye bain’t no call to be sorry for me,” he said cheerily. “I be gettin’ on fust-rate, thank ye,” and he shifted the brown-paper parcel from one arm to the other. “We was but passin’ opinions on the breeds and pedigrees o’ the women-folk, as far as I be aware. Why, I’d rather ’ave all the pumps on at once than see the ricks a-burnin’ for ten minutes. Each man to ’is taste, neighbour, and thank _you_ for a ’alf hour’s exchange ’o notions, so to speak.” Hewson smiled, a trifle bewildered. “That be it,” said he genially. “Each man to ’is taste, or in other words—let every one put up wi’ what ’e ’ave got. A blemish is a blemish, but the mare may be sound for all that.” “Sound!” began the miller, half angrily. But he had reached the top of the hill; his own garden-gate was in sight, and his own house-door opened and sent a flood of yellow light down the walk to put out the white moonbeams on the hollyhocks and the sunflowers. “Right ye be, man,” cried he good-humouredly, slapping his comrade noisily on the back. “We won’t fight over ’em; there’s blemishes, I dare say, but the mares be both sound for all that.” And on the doorstep the women were exchanging a last word. The miller’s wife, warmed to further unbosoming by a seductive cup of tea, was pouring final confidences into Mrs. Hewson’s willing ear.