"Are t' fires upstairs burnin' reet?" asked Mrs. Dixon severely. She had
already told Thyrza half a dozen times that day that such a greed for
sweet things as she displayed would ruin her digestion and her teeth; and
it ruffled a dictatorial temper to be taken no more notice of than if she
were a duck quacking in the farmyard.
"Aye, they're burnin'," said Thyrza, with a shrug. Then she looked round
her with a toss of her decidedly graceful head. "But it's a creepy old
place howivver. I'd not live here if I was paid. What does Muster Melrose
want wi' coomin' here? He's got lots o' money, Mr. Tyson says. He'll
nivver stay. What was the use o' turnin' father out, an' makkin' a lot o'
trouble?"
"This house is not a farmin' house," said Dixon slowly, surveying
the girl, as she sat on the packing-case swinging her feet, her
straw-coloured hair and pink cotton dress making a spot of pleasant
colour in the darkness as the lamp-light fell on them. "It's a house for
t' gentry."
"Well, then, t' gentry might clean it up an' put decent furnishin's into
't," said Thyrza defiantly. "Not a bit o' paperin' doon anywhere--juist
two three rooms colour-washed, as yo' med do 'em at t' workhouse. An'
that big hole in t' dinin'-room ceilin', juist as 'twas--and such shabby
sticks o' things upstairs an' down as I nivver see! I'll have a good
sight better when _I_ get married, I know!"
Contempt ran sharply through the girl's tone.
As she ceased speaking a step was heard in the corridor.
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