George Meredith - Rhoda Fleming. Complete

“Got on pretty smooth with old Mas’ Gammon?” he expressed his hope; and Robert said, “Capitally. We shall make something out of the old man yet, never fear.”

Master Gammon was condemned to serve at the ready-set tea-table as a butt for banter; otherwise it was apprehended well that Mrs. Sumfit would have scorched the ears of all present, save the happy veteran of the furrows, with repetitions of Dahlia’s name, and wailings about her darling, of whom no one spoke. They suffered from her in spite of every precaution.

“Well, then, if I’m not to hear anything dooring meals—as if I’d swallow it and take it into my stomach!—I’ll wait again for what ye’ve got to tell,” she said, and finished her cup at a gulp, smoothing her apron.

The farmer then lifted his head.

“Mother, if you’ve done, you’ll oblige me by going to bed,” he said. “We want the kitchen.”

“A-bed?” cried Mrs. Sumfit, with instantly ruffled lap.

“Upstairs, mother; when you’ve done—not before.”

“Then bad’s the noos! Something have happened, William. You ‘m not going to push me out? And my place is by the tea-pot, which I cling to, rememberin’ how I seen her curly head grow by inches up above the table and the cups. Mas’ Gammon,” she appealed to the sturdy feeder, “five cups is your number?”

Her hope was reduced to the prolonging of the service of tea, with Master Gammon’s kind assistance.

“Four, marm,” said her inveterate antagonist, as he finished that amount, and consequently put the spoon in his cup.

Mrs. Sumfit rolled in her chair.

“O Lord, Mas’ Gammon! Five, I say; and never a cup less so long as here you’ve been.”

“Four, marm. I don’t know,” said Master Gammon, with a slow nod of his head, “that ever I took five cups of tea at a stretch. Not runnin’.”

“I do know, Mas’ Gammon. And ought to: for don’t I pour out to ye? It’s five you take, and please, your cup, if you’ll hand it over.”

“Four’s my number, marm,” Master Gammon reiterated resolutely. He sat like a rock.

“If they was dumplins,” moaned Mrs. Sumfit, “not four, no, nor five, ‘d do till enough you’d had, and here we might stick to our chairs, but you’d go on and on; you know you would.”

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