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‘And has he married the valiant matron’s daughter, as he promised?’ asked Angel Clare absently, as he turned over the newspaper he was reading at the little table to which he was always banished by Mrs. Crick, in her sense of his gentility.

‘Not he, sir. Never meant to,’ replied the dairyman. ‘As I say, ’tis a widow-woman, and she had money, it seems—fifty poun’ a year or so; and that was all he was after. They were married in a great hurry; and then she told him that by marrying she had lost her fifty poun’ a year. Just fancy the state o’ my gentleman’s mind at that news! Never such a cat-and-dog life as they’ve been leading ever since! Serves him well beright. But unluckily the poor woman gets the worst o’t.’

‘Well, the silly body should have told him sooner that the ghost of her first man would trouble him,’ said Mrs. Crick.

‘Yes, yes,’ responded the dairyman indecisively.

‘Still, you can see exactly how it was. She wanted a home, and didn’t like to run the risk of losing him. Don’t ye think that was something like it, maidens?’