Miss Judy?"

There was no answer to this, and Mrs. Penticost, her rosy face set in
lines of determination, began again.

"Must be rare and dull for 'ee down here after London, though there was
that ball in to Penzance t'other night. Dance weth Maister Ruan, ded
'ee, my dear? They do say he handles his feet some pretty. I remember
when I was a maid I was all for a man who could do that. I got as far as
walking arm-a-crook weth a chap wance, and, thought I, 'I won't go for
to ask he to step in till I do know if he can dance wi' I.' Some trouble
I ded have keepen' he quiet till there was a gala and us could dance.
Primitive Wesleyan, the gala was. He was all for me maken' up my mind
long before, and I wouldn' have un till I knew, nor yet I wouldn' let un
go. 'Must keep cousins weth he or he'll go off,' I thought; and so I
ded, my dear, just managed it nicely. I gave the go-bye to a fine-looken
chap from St. Just to dance wi' my man, and then I found that he never
danced toall, and hadn't dared tell me. Mad as fire I was, and abused
him worse than dung. But you couldn' ever go for to lay that complaint
against Maister Ruan, nor yet any other, I should say."

"Mr. Ruan is all that is good and splendid, of course, Mrs. Penticost,"
said Blanche, folding up her letter.

"He is that, sure 'nough, and it'll be a bad day for the woman that ever
does him a hurt, him that has had enough already to turn his very heart
grey in his breast. I wouldn' like to see no woman do that."

"Mightn't it be better than making him unhappier in the long run by not
doing him a hurt now, as you call it?" asked Blanche.