wooden arm-chair. “I shall begin to think that colour of yours ain’t natural. Dare you let me rub it with a handkerchief?”
“Course I dare,” replied Clem, tossing her head. “Don’t be so forward, Mr. Snowdon.”
“Forward? Not I. I’m behind time if anything. I hope I haven’t kept you from church.”
He chuckled at his double joke. Mother and daughter laughed appreciatively.
“Will you take your eggs boiled or fried?” inquired Mrs. Peckover.
“Going to give me eggs, are you? Well, I’ve no objection, I assure you. And I think I’ll have them fried, Mrs. Peckover. But, I say, you mustn’t be running up too big a bill. The Lord only knows when I shall get anything to do, and it ain’t very likely to be a thousand a year when it does come.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” replied the landlady, as if sordid calculation were a thing impossible to her. “I can’t say as you behaved quite straightforward years ago, Mr. Snowdon, but I ain’t one to make a row about bygones,
