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I'm just as sure as I can be that if they part now they'll nivver come together again. Who'd a thow't it 'ud ever come to this between 'em." She fairly panted with the burden of her feelings. Just as she was about to break out into fresh lamentations, the door slowly opened, disclosing the sober face and lean figure of John Herbert Bedford Lawson, confidential servant to Mr. Townsley.
His fame was due to the perfection of a single book; he ranked as a potentate in STYLE. But literary perfection, whether in prose or poetry, is a fragile quality, an afflatus irregular, independent, unamenable to orders; the official tributes of a Laureate we compliment at their best with the northern farmer's verdict on the pulpit performances of his parson: "An' I niver knaw'd wot a mean'd but I thow't a 'ad summut to saay, And I thowt a said wot a owt to 'a said an' I comed awaay."
I had not meant to ax thee again though I like thee just the same. A man like me, lass, has got a little pride, and I don't want to thrust myself upon any woman. But I mun say that, when I seed how worked up about the missus thou wert, and about the maister, too, going away and hadn't a thow't for me my feelings did get a little the best o' me, and I couldn't help exposing 'em again summat.
Without doubt John Herbert Bedford Lawson was in a most ill-conditioned mood, for instead of being moved by the palpable distress of the attractive suppliant, he turned his back ungraciously, thrust his hands viciously under his ample coat-tails, elevated his chin aggressively, and said airily, as he kept up a warlike tattoo on the carpet with one of his heels: "John Lawson, thou art reet; it's not the thow't o' thee going away that's causing her any trouble thou canst go to the uttermost parts o' the earth for all she cares, lad."
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