Well, well, Vixen, you foolish wench, what is it, what is
it? I must go in, must I? Aye, aye, I'm never to have a will o' my own
any more. And those pups--what do you think I'm to do with 'em, when
they're twice as big as you? For I'm pretty sure the father was that
hulking bull-terrier of Will Baker's--wasn't he now, eh, you sly hussy?"
(Here Vixen tucked her tail between her legs and ran forward into the
house. Subjects are sometimes broached which a well-bred female will
ignore.)
"But where's the use of talking to a woman with babbies?" continued
Bartle. "She's got no conscience--no conscience; it's all run to milk."
Book Three
Chapter XXII
Going to the Birthday Feast
THE thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those half-dozen warm
days which sometimes occur in the middle of a rainy English summer. No
rain had fallen for the last three or four days, and the weather was
perfect for that time of the year: there was less dust than usual on
the dark-green hedge-rows and on the wild camomile that starred the
roadside, yet the grass was dry enough for the little children to roll
on it, and there was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy ripple,
high, high up in the far-off blue sky.
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