"There isn’t a deal that’s private, surely, about the mess o’ things you’ve made on the marsh?..." The fight was really begun now, and Eliza turned in her seat, fixing her adversary with merciless eyes. Sarah could see very little but a monstrous blur, but she felt her malignant atmosphere in every nerve. She could hear the big, solid presence creaking with malice as it breathed, and had an impression of strained whalebone and stretching cloth. But it was always Eliza’s most cherished garments that she visioned when they fought,--the velvet gown that was folded away upstairs ... gloves, furs, and a feathered hat; furthest of all, the wedding-gown and the flaunting veil.... "Private!" Eliza repeated the sneered word as if it were something too precious to let go. "There can’t be that much private about things as we’ve all on us known for years. What, folks has puzzled no end why you’ve never ended in t’bankruptcy court long since! Will and me could likely ha’ tellt them about it, though, couldn’t we, Sarah? Will an’ me could easy ha’ tellt ’em why! Will and me could ha’ tellt where brass come from as was keeping you on t’rails----" Will had been lending a careful ear to Simon’s surly talk, but he lifted his head at the sound of his name. "Now, missis, just you let Mrs. Simon be!" he admonished, with a troubled frown. "You’re over fond of other folks’ business by a deal." "I’ll let her be and welcome, if she’ll keep a civil tongue in her head!" Eliza cried. She went redder than ever, and slapped a tea-spoon angrily on the cloth. "But if our brass isn’t our business, I’d like to know what is, and as for this stir about quitting Sandholes, it’s nothing fresh, I’m sure! We all on us know it’s a marvel landlord didn’t get shot on ’em long ago." The last remark galvanised Battersby into lively speech. Hitherto he had been busily concentrated on his food, but now his mean little features sharpened and his mean little eyes shone. He bent eagerly forward, leaning on the cloth, knife and fork erect like stakes in a snatched plot. "What’s yon about quitting Sandholes?" he asked, in a thin voice. "Are you thinking o’ leaving, Simon? Is it true?" "I don’t see as it’s any affair o’ yours if it is," Simon answered him, with a sulky stare. "Nay, it was nobbut a friendly question between man and man. If you’re quitting the farm it would only be neighbourly just to give me a hint. There’s a lad o’ mine talking o’ getting wed, and I thought as how Sandholes’d likely be going cheap. Has anybody put in for it yet wi’ t’agent, do ye think?" "Nay, nor like to do, yet awhile," Simon answered glumly, full of sullen hurt. All his love for his tiresome dwelling-place rose to the surface at this greed. "I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Battersby, as you ax so kind, that I give in my notice but it wasn’t took. Mr. Dent would have it I mun think it over a bit more. Your lad’ll just have to bide or look out for somebody else’s shoes."