'Gracious, no! Who should I be in love with, mother?'

'Quite right, dear. There is no one about here with more looks than a
brussels sprout. Not that I say anything against sprouts. Martha, just
go and see if there are any sprouts left. We'll have them for dinner.'
Edward looked at the woods across the batch, and wondered why the young
fresh green of the larches and the elm samaras was so sad, and why the
cry of a sheep from an upper slope was so forlorn.

'I hope, Edward,' said Mrs. Marston, 'that it won't be serious music. I
think serious music interferes with the digestion. Your poor father and
I went to the "Creation" on our honeymoon, and thought little of it;
then we went to the "Crucifixion," and though it was very pleasant, I
couldn't digest the oysters afterwards. And then, again, these clever
musicians allow themselves to become so passionate, one almost thinks
they are inebriated. Not flutes and cornets, they have to think of
their breath, but fiddlers can wreak their feelings on the instrument
without suffering for it.'

Edward laughed.

'I hope the gentleman that's coming to-day is a nice quiet one,' she
went on, as if Abel were a pony. 'And I hope the lady singer is not a
contralto. Contralto, to my mind,' she went on placidly, stirring her
porter in preparation for a draught, 'is only another name for roaring,
which is unseemly.' She drank her porter gratefully, keeping the spoon
in place with one finger.

If she could have seen father and daughter as they set forth,
hilarious, to superimpose tumult on the peace of God's Little Mountain,