‘Ain’t I a friend, Ruby?’

’A pretty sort of friend, you!  When you was going away, you was to be back at Carbury in a fortnight; and that is,—­oh, ever so long ago now.’

‘But I wrote to you, Ruby.’

’What’s letters?  And the postman to know all as in ’em for anything anybody knows, and grandfather to be almost sure to see ’em.  I don’t call letters no good at all, and I beg you won’t write ’em any more.’

‘Did he see them?’

’No thanks to you if he didn’t.  I don’t know why you are come here, Sir Felix,—­nor yet I don’t know why I should come...