"How's your leg, Gaunt?"

"'Tis much the same, Sir Gerald."

"Rain coming makes it shoot, I expect."

"It do."

Malloring stood still. The impulse was on him to see if, after all, the
Gaunts' affair could not be disposed of without turning the old fellow
and his son out.

"Look here!" he said; "about this unfortunate business. Why don't
you and your son make up your minds without more ado to let your
granddaughter go out to service? You've been here all your lives; I
don't want to see you go."

The least touch of color invaded the old man's carved and grayish face.

"Askin' your pardon," he said, "my son sticks by his girl, and I sticks
by my son!"

"Oh! very well; you know your own business, Gaunt. I spoke for your
good."

A faint smile curled the corners of old Gaunt's mouth downward beneath
his gray moustaches.

"Thank you kindly," he said.