“Who wouldn’t?” mumbled the Duke, who was just wiping his brow (which was like that of the blacksmith in the poem) with a large and fearfully rough pocket-handkerchief. “What?” The voice was very sharp. It recalled to the Duke the necessities of his situation. Emerging from behind the handkerchief, he found himself in the presence of a tall stout lady of imperious demeanour. She wore a skirt, consequentially ample, of shiny black, and a black velvet mantle embellished with beads, apparently jet. The Duke’s instinct rarely failed him--that was what would have made him such a great man of affairs. “The parson’s wife!” he thought to himself, without a moment’s hesitation. Then he cast about for his wisest course of action. “Why aren’t you at work?” the lady demanded sternly. The Duke had worked extraordinarily hard for three hours. He was indignant. But he was wary. He was considering what accent to adopt. It struck him that he would try the Somersetshire; he had heard that at the theatres; the rural (but honest) father of the erring (but sweet) heroine usually employed it. Of course, if the parson’s wife happened to come from Somerset---- Well, some risks must be taken. “I do be of a-workin’,” said the Duke. “Lasteways, I do be of a just ’avin’ done it.” He clung to his “be” with no small confidence. “Where do you come from?” “Zummer-sett,” said he. “You talk in a funny way. When did you come here?” The Duke felt sure that he ought not to say “Last night”; accordingly he replied “Yuster-e’en.” The lady looked suspicious. “You’re seeking employment?” Suddenly--and opportunely--the Duke remembered Frank’s warning: he was to be out of work. “Yus, I be,” he said, wondering if his face were dirty enough. “Church or Chapel?” she asked sharply. “Charch,” answered the Duke. And by a happy thought he added, “Ma’am.” “What’s your name?” With the question she produced a little note-book and a pencil. “Bevv----” he began thoughtlessly. He stopped. A barren invention, and a mind acute to the danger of hesitation, combined to land him in “Devvle.” “Devil? That’s a very odd name.” “My feyther’s name afore me,” affirmed the Duke, who felt that he was playing his part rather well, though he regretted that a different initial consonant had not occurred to him. The lady surveyed him with a long and distrustful glance. “Have you had any beer _this_ morning?” she asked. The Duke never took beer--not even in the evening. “None,” he replied with a touch of indignation. “I wish I was sure of that!” she remarked. The Duke, himself regretfully sure (for the digging had changed his feelings towards beer), wondered at her suspicious disposition. “Well, we shall see. You’re in my daughter’s district. She will come and see you.” “Vurry good, ma’am,” said the Duke. “Are you married?” “No, ma’am.” “You live alone, then?” Swiftly the Duke reflected. “I got a brother, ma’am, but ’e do be kind o’--kind o’ weak.”