"There you go, John-James Beggoe, talken' as though I grudged my own
cheild maken' herself 'ansome. Vassie, my worm, you may have that bit o'
blue ribbon I bought last Corpus Fair--'tes in the chest."

Vassie was off before her mother had time to change her mind, and
John-James began slowly to rinse the china through the darkened water,
on whose surface the grease lay in a shimmering arabesque. Annie went
round the kitchen rasping the chairs over the stone floor and making
futile dabs at their seats with her apron. She had that curious
uncertainty of aim usually seen in dogs, who never seem to be sure of
touching the object at which they paw.

The head and shoulders of Archelaus, furze-laden, passed the window,
apparently floating through the luminous warmth of afternoon that filled
the courtyard as through the depths of the sea. The illusion was
shattered when he kicked the door open and, striding in, flung his
burden on to the dying fire. The sudden glow that leapt up revealed Tom
ensconced in the settle, cleaning his boots with a pat of butter stolen
from the dairy. He continued his occupation quite unmoved by the
fulminations of his mother, bending his ruddy head over the boots. Tom
was the "red-headed Dane" who crops up generation after generation in
some Cornish families.

"Hold your tongue, mother," he said at last, holding one boot at arm's
length and cocking his head sideways the better to admire the effect of
the buttering; "I'm going to look decent to-night if no one else is. And
so I don't mind a-tellen' 'ee--" with a sudden slip into the dialect
that he studiously trained himself to avoid. Any lapse of the kind meant
that Tom was not in a mood to be trifled with, and Annie turned suddenly
to Archelaus.