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Smithson, staring straight before him, nodded. "As I was saying," resumed Mr. Clarkson, in the low tones of confidence, "Digson was after her money. Of course her money don't make any difference to me, although, perhaps, I may be able to do something for friends like you. It's from an uncle in America on her mother's " Mr.
I was just giving you the tip, but if you know better why, there's nothing more to be said. She'll be riding in her carriage and pair in six months, anyhow; the richest woman in Little Molton." Mr. Clarkson stopped short and eyed him in perplexity. "Digson got a bit sprung one night and told me," said Mr. Bignell. "She don't know it herself yet uncle on her mother's side in America.
Phipps was anything but a child. Mr. Clarkson admitted cheerfully that Mr. Digson was a younger and better-looking man than himself a more suitable match in every way. And, so far as he could judge, Mrs. Phipps seemed to think so. At any rate, she had ceased to make the faintest allusion to any tie between them.
"That means you've got to live there when you're married," said his friend, solemnly. Mr. Clarkson glanced round his comfortable room and groaned again. "She asked me to get an estimate from Digson," he said, dully. "She knows as well as I do her sister hasn't got any money. I wrote to say that it had better be left till she comes home, as I might not know what was wanted." Mr.
Phipps will let me advise her, I'll make this house so she won't know it before I've done with it." "Mr. Digson has been very kind," said Mrs. Phipps, reproachfully. "Not at all, ma'am," said the builder, softly. "Anything I can do to make you happy or comfortable will be a pleasure to me." Mr. Clarkson started again, and an odd idea sent his blood dancing. Digson was a widower; Mrs.
"That means you've got to live there when you're married," said his friend, solemnly. Mr. Clarkson glanced round his comfortable room and groaned again. "She asked me to get an estimate from Digson," he said, dully. "She knows as well as I do her sister hasn't got any money. I wrote to say that it had better be left till she comes home, as I might not know what was wanted." Mr.
In the front parlour Mr. Digson, a small builder and contractor, was busy whitewashing. "I thought we might as well get on with that," said Mrs. Phipps; "there is only one way of doing whitewashing, and the room has got to be done. To-morrow Mr. Digson will bring up some papers, and, if you'll come round, you can help me choose." Mr. Clarkson hesitated.
"Give my love to Emma Digson, an' Joe Harrison, an' my mother, an' tell little Bill he mus' be a good boy, an' tell Sarah Johnson" Here followed a list of greetings and messages, as long as those at the end of the Pauline epistles. Allie was still toiling her way through them, making conscientious attempts to discover the proper spelling of names, when she heard the front door open and shut.
He left her one day painting a door, while the attentive Digson guided the brush, and walked homewards smiling. "Morning!" said a voice behind him. "Morning, Bignell," said Mr. Clarkson. "When when is it to be?" inquired his friend, walking beside him. Mr. Clarkson frowned. "When is what to be?" he demanded, disagreeably. Mr. Bignell lowered his voice.
"I thought Digson was the biggest fool in the place, and I find I've made a mistake. So have you. Good-night." He opened the door and dashed out. Mr. Clarkson, with a strange sinking at his heart, watched him up the road. The night-watchman shook his head. "I never met any of these phil philantherpists, as you call 'em," he said, decidedly.
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