“Nothing to ours! Lord, what a mort o’ custom! Look at that whopping box we’ve just carried in.” He pointed to the ante-room. “And all they other boxes!” he added with an inspiration, staring at the lumber of his deceased and scattered family. “Oh, I know,” Will conceded graciously, “that there are folks that stick to Jinny—I mean to you—for old sake’s sake.” “Ay, and you’re hankerin’ arter our hundred years’ connexion!” “Eh?” said Will, dazed. He stole a reassuring glance at his magnificent turn-out. “Oi could see what ye were droivin’ at with your friendly proposition. Want us to take you into pardnership.” Will slapped his knee. “Well, I’m danged.” Daniel chuckled fatuously. “Ho, ho! Guessed it, did Oi? Ye can’t keep much from Daniel Quarles.” And in high good humour he laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder and moved him back into the house. They found Jinny, who had just deposited the beer-jug on the table, flitting up the stairs. “Where ye gooin’, Jinny?” the Gaffer called after her. “You’ve got things to talk over,” she called back. “It ain’t secrets,” he crowed. “Don’t run away,” Will added. “You’re the person most concerned.” But his blushing rival had disappeared. It was all too unnerving, especially when the cracked mirror, aided by the fat lamp, showed her what a shabby unkempt figure was setting out the beer-glasses on the tiger-painted tray. As she could not change into her grand gown under the invader’s eye, she was furtively carrying it up to her grandfather’s bedroom. VIII “Set ye down,” repeated the Gaffer. “Have a glass o’ beer.” “No, thank you, I’ve had water.” “And the glass too,” the old man chuckled. “That ain’t much of a chate. Have a shiver o’ cake.” Will did not like to refuse the slice till the Gaffer, after looking round with growing grumpiness, brought in the great wedding-cake from the kitchen, naked of its carton. “Muddlin’ things away,” he was murmuring, as he posed it pompously on the table, whence its high-built glory of frosted sugar shed a festal air over the room. “No, thank you!” cried Will hastily, divining a mistake—on the Gaffer’s part, if not on Jinny’s. He guessed Farmer Gale was concerned with it, for the whole countryside was agog with the meanness of a wedding that did not include a labourers’ supper, nay, even a holiday for them. The old man glared, bread-knife in hand. “It would give me stomach-ache,” Will apologized. The confession arrested the ancient. “Never had gullion in my life,” he bragged, laying down the bread-knife. “But you young folks——!” “It’s like this,” said Will, taking advantage of this better mood. “There’s not enough business to keep both of us going. Suppose I buy you out.” “Buy me out!” The prophet of wrath resurged. His arm shot out for the bread-knife, pointing it door ward. “Git out o’ my house. For a hundred year——”