to him. In his youth he had been a great dancer and boxer. Now he was taciturn, and inert. The minister had nothing to say, so he sought for his phrases. But John Durant took no notice, existing silent and dull.
Mrs. Durant spread the cloth. Her husband poured himself beer into a mug, and began to smoke and drink.
“Shall you have some?” he growled through his beard at the clergyman, looking slowly from the man to the jug, capable of this one idea.
“No, thank you,” replied Mr. Lindley, though he would have liked some beer. He must set the example in a drinking parish.
“We need a drop to keep us going,” said Mrs. Durant.
She had rather a complaining manner. The clergyman sat on uncomfortably while she laid the table for the half-past ten lunch. Her husband drew up to eat. She remained in her little round arm-chair by the fire.
She was a woman who would have liked to be easy in her life, but to whose lot had fallen a rough and turbulent family, and a slothful husband who did not care what became of himself or anybody. So, her rather good-looking square face was peevish, she had that air of having been compelled all her life to serve unwillingly, and to control where she did not want to control. There was about her, too, that masterful aplomb of a woman who has brought up and ruled her sons: but even them she had ruled unwillingly. She had enjoyed managing her little haberdashery-shop, riding in the carrier’s cart to
