“Well, Landon or no Landon, supper’s ready!” she said, briskly—­ “and it’s been waiting an hour at least.  Say grace, Mister Jocelyn, and I’ll carve!”

Jocelyn looked at her bewilderedly.

“Say grace?” he queried—­“what for?”

Priscilla laughed loudly to cover the surprise she felt.

“What for?  Lor, Mister Jocelyn, if you don’t know I’m sure I don’t!  For the beef and potatoes, I suppose, an’ all the stuff we eats—­’for what we are going to receive—­’”

“Ah, yes!  I remember—­’May the Lord make us truly thankful!’” responded Jocelyn, closing his eyes for a second and then opening them again—­“And I’ll tell you what, Priscilla!—­there’s a deal more to be thankful for to-night than beef and potatoes!—­a great deal more!”

CHAPTER VII

The supper was a very silent meal.  Old Hugo was evidently not inclined to converse,—­he ate his food quickly, almost ravenously, without seeming to be conscious that he was eating.  Robin Clifford glanced at him now and again watchfully, and with some anxiety,—­ an uncomfortable idea that there was something wrong somewhere worried him,—­moreover he was troubled by the latent feeling that presently his uncle would be sure to ask if all was “settled” between himself and Innocent.  Strangely enough, however, the old man made no allusion to the subject.  He seemed to have forgotten it, though it had been the chief matter on which he had laid so much stress that morning.  Each minute Innocent expected him to turn upon her with the dreaded question—­to which she would have had to reply untruly, according to the plan made between herself and Robin.  But to her great surprise and relief he said nothing that conveyed the least hint of the wish he had so long cherished.  He was irritable and drowsy,—­now and again his head fell a little forward on his chest and his eyes closed as though in utter weariness.  Seeing this, the practical Priscilla made haste to get the supper finished and cleared away.

“You be off to bed, Mister Jocelyn,” she said,—­“The sooner the better, for you look as tired as a lame dog that ’as limped ’ome twenty miles.  You ain’t fit to be racketing about markets an’ drivin’ bargains.”

“Who says I’m not?” he interrupted, sitting bolt upright and glaring fiercely at her—­“I tell you I am!  I can do business as well as any man—­and drive a bargain-ah!  I should think so indeed!—­a hard-and-fast bargain!—­not easy to get out of, I can tell you!—­not easy to get out of!  And it has cost me a pretty penny, too!”

Robin Clifford glanced at him enquiringly.

“How’s that?” he asked—­“You generally make rather than spend!”

Jocelyn gave a sudden loud laugh.

“So I do, boy, so I do!  But sometimes one has to spend to make!  I’ve done both to-day—­I’ve made and I’ve spent.  And what I’ve spent is better than keeping it—­and what I’ve made—­ay!—­what I’ve made—­well!—­it’s a bargain, and no one can say it isn’t a fair one!”