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Mrs。 Poyser had thought of Dinah several times since Adam
had come in； but she had had “no heart” to mention the bad news。
“What！” said Bartle； with an air of disgust。 “Was there a woman
concerned？ Then I give you up； Adam。”
“But it’s a woman you’n spoke well on； Bartle；” said Mr。 Poyser。
“Come now； you canna draw back； you said once as women
wouldna ha’ been a bad invention if they’d all been like Dinah。”
“I meant her voice； man—I meant her voice； that was all；” said
Bartle。 “I can bear to hear her speak without wanting to put wool
in my ears。 As for other things； I daresay she’s like the rest o’ the
women—thinks two and two ’ll come to make five； if she cries and
bothers enough about it。”
“Aye； aye！” said Mrs。 Poyser； “one ’ud think； an’ hear some
folks talk； as the men war ’cute enough to count the corns in a bag
o’ wheat wi’ only smelling at it。 They can see through a barn…door；
they can。 Perhaps that’s the reason they can see so little o’ this side
on’t。”
Martin Poyser shook with delighted laughter and winked at
Adam； as much as to say the schoolmaster was in for it now。
“Ah！” said Bartle sneeringly； “the women are quick enough—
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they’re quick enough。 They know the rights of a story before they
hear it； and can tell a man what his thoughts are before he knows
’em himself。”
“Like enough；” said Mrs。 Poyser； “for the men are mostly so
slow； their thoughts overrun ’em； an’ they can only catch ’em by
the tail。 I can count a stocking…top while a man’s getting’s tongue
ready an’ when he outs wi’ his speech at last； there’s little broth to
be made on’t。 It’s your dead chicks take the longest hatchin’。
Howiver； I’m not denyin’ the women are foolish： God Almighty
made ’em to match the men。”
“Match！” said Bartle。 “Aye； as vinegar matches one’s teeth。 If a
man says a word； his wife ’ll match it with a contradiction； if he’s a
mind for hot meat； his wife ’ll match it with cold bacon； if he
laughs； she’ll match him with whimpering。 She’s such a match as
the horse…fly is to th’ horse： she’s got the right venom to sting him
with—the right venom to sting him with。”
“Yes；” said Mrs。 Poyser； “I know what the men like—a poor
soft； as ’ud simper at ’em like the picture o’ the sun； whether they
did right or wrong； an’ say thank you for a kick； an’ pretend she
didna know which end she stood uppermost； till her husband told
her。 That’s what a man wants in a wife； mostly； he wants to make
sure o’ one fool as ’ull tell him he’s wise。 But there’s some men can
do wi’out that—they think so much o’ themselves a’ready。 An’
that’s how it is there’s old bachelors。”
“Come； Craig；” said Mr。 Poyser jocosely； “you mun get married
pretty quick； else you’ll be set down for an old bachelor； an’ you
see what the women ’ull think on you。”
“Well；” said Mr。 Craig； willing to conciliate Mrs。 Poyser and
setting a high value on his own compliments； “I like a cleverish
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woman—a woman o’ sperrit—a managing woman。”
“You’re out there； Craig；” said Bartle； dryly； “you’re out there。
You judge o’ your garden…stuff on a better plan than that。 You pick
the things for what they can excel in—for what they can excel in。
You don’t value your peas for their roots； or your carrots for their
flowers。 Now； that’s the way you should choose women。 Their
cleverness ’ll never come to much—never come to much—but they
make excellent simpletons； ripe and strong…flavoured。”
“What dost say to that？” said Mr。 Poyser； throwing himself back
and looking merrily at his wife。
“Say！” answered Mrs。 Poyser； with dangerous fire kindling in
her eye。 “Why； I say as some folks’ tongues are like the clocks as
run on strikin’； not to tell you the time o’ the day； but because
there’s summat wrong i’ their own inside 。 。 。 ”
Mrs。 Poyser would probably have brought her rejoinder to a
further climax； if every one’s attention had not at this moment
been called to the other end of the table； where the lyricism； which
had at first only manifested itself by David’s sotto voce
performance of “My love’s a rose without a thorn；” had gradually
assumed a rather deafening and complex character。 Tim； thinking
slightly of David’s vocalisation； was impelled to supersede that
feeble buzz by a spirited commencement of “Three Merry
Mowers；” but David was not to be put down so easily； and showed
himself capable of a copious crescendo； which was rendering it
doubtful whether the rose would not predominate over the
mowers； when old Kester； with an entirely unmoved and
immovable aspect； suddenly set up a quavering treble—as if he
had been an alarum； and the time was come for him to go off。
The company at Alick’s end of the table took this form of vocal
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entertainment very much as a matter of course； being free from
musical prejudices； but Bartle Massey laid down his pipe and put
his fingers in his ears； and Adam； who had been longing to go ever
since he had heard Dinah was not in the house； rose and said he
must bid good…night。
“I’ll go with you； lad；” said Bartle； “I’ll go with you before my
ears are split。”
“I’ll go round by the Common and see you home； if you like； Mr。
Massey；” said Adam。
“Aye； aye！” said Bartle； “then we can have a bit o’ talk together。
I never get hold of you now。”
“Eh！ It’s a pity but you’d sit it out；” said Martin Poyser。 “They’ll
all go soon； for th’ missis niver lets ’em stay past ten。”
But Adam was resolute； so the good…nights were said； and the
two friends turned out on their starlight walk t