Margaret smiled outright.  Ted thought he would follow up his advantage and clinch the point at once.

“Now, Miss Heptonstall,” said he, “for instance, if I was to coom coortin’ ye, I wouldn’t be thinkin’ of onything but makkin’ ye coomfortable.  I reckon ye’d mak’ me coomfortable”—­(with an air of great fairness and impartiality)—­“that’s wheer ’tis; it ’ud be ’give an’ take, give an’ take.’  I feel dreadful lonely of an evenin’, an’ it’s a sad thing when a man allus has to do for hissel’.  I’d be thankful if ye’d have me—­”

“I reckon ye would,” interrupted Margaret with disconcerting frankness; “I’ve a good bit o’ brass saved.”

This was news to Ted, and he looked at her with genuine interest.

“Have ye?” said he.  “I raly didn’t know.  Well, I’m doin’ pratty well too, an’ I’ve got a nice little place—­”

“Nay,” put in Margaret, “it isn’t mich of a place; this here’s twice th’ size, an’ a dale coomfortabler.  Nay, if we was to get wed, ye’d ha’ to coom here—­I wouldn’t go yonder.”

Ted started for a moment, somewhat taken back by the matter-of-fact coolness with which his advances were received; he might as well finish the job now however, he reflected, and as he did not mean the business to proceed beyond the “shouting” stage, it would not hurt him to make any concession that Margaret might please to exact.

“Ah, I could coom here,” he remarked heroically; “my little nook isn’t sich an ill place for all that; but I’ll do it, an’ I’ll gi’ ye my wage reg’lar an’ do th’ dirty work all round, an’—­an’ turn teetotal if ye want it.”

“Naw,” said Miss Heptonstall, “I wouldn’t go as far as that; I like a glass o’ beer mysel’ at dinner-time—­I allus keep a little cask i’ th’ buttery yon—­but you’ll ha’ to gi’ o’er callin’ at th’ Thornleigh Arms.”

“Tisn’t like I’d want to be callin’ at th’ Thornleigh Arms if I’d a coomfortable place like this to set in o’ neets, and a missus o’ my own to look to.”

He had for a moment contemplated qualifying the word “missus” with some such adjective as “bonny,” but a glance at Margaret’s face nipped this poetical flower in the bud.  After a moment she sat upright, gazing at him stolidly.

“I’ll think on ‘t,” she said.  “Theer’s things for it an’ theer’s things agin it.  One thing’s agin it—­I dunnot fancy your talk out o’ th’ newspapers—­speakin’ ill o’ th’ Queen an’ that—­I reckon we’d ha’ words if ye carried on that road when we was mon an’ wife.”

Wharton rubbed his hands and looked embarrassed; he had hitherto had no hesitation in perjuring himself, but he could not for the life of him swallow his principles.

Margaret marched across the room and took down a framed photograph from a shelf of the old-fashioned dresser.  It represented Her Majesty in royal robes.

“This here Canon give me at th’ time o’ th’ Jubilee,” she pursued.  “I’ve vallyed it—­well, I couldn’t say how mich I’ve vallyed it an’ do vally it.  See here, dunnot hoo look noble?  I couldn’t do wi’ onybody i’ th’ house as didn’t respect this same as I do.”