George grinned and looked conscious; as he swallowed a gulp of whiskey it crackled in his throat. The sound annoyed the old lady.
“Tha’ might be scar’d at summat,” she said. “Tha’ niver ’ad six drops o’ spunk in thee.”
She turned again with a sniff to her glass. He frowned with irritation, half filled his glass with liquor, and drank again.
“I dare bet as tha’ niver kissed a wench in thy life—not proper”—and she tossed the last drops of her toddy down her skinny throat.
Here Meg came along the passage.
“Come, gran’ma,” she said. “I’m sure it’s time as you was in bed—come on.”
“Sit thee down an’ drink a drop wi’s—it’s not ivry night as we ’a’e cumpny.”
“No, let me take you to bed—I’m sure you must be ready.”
“Sit thee down ’ere, I say, an’ get thee a drop o’ port. Come—no argy-bargyin’.”
Meg fetched more glasses and a decanter. I made a place for her between me and George. We all had port wine. Meg, naïve and unconscious, waited on us deliciously. Her cheeks gleamed like satin when she laughed, save when the dimples held the shadow. Her suave, tawny neck was bare and bewitching. She turned suddenly to George as he asked her a question, and they found their faces close together. He kissed her, and when she started back, jumped and kissed her neck with warmth.
“Là—là—dy—dà—là—dy—dà—dy—dà,” cried the old woman in delight, and she clutched her wine-glass.
