In spite of his resolve her humility touched him. And that she came in suppliant mood suited his proud fancy. But he did not trust her. ‘What should you be stayen for? Nay, doon’t start snivellen. Ye’re none so handsome without that, tellee.’ She turned her back on him and began moving away. ‘Eh, you be a bag of fancy tricks, Jenny Mykelborne. Gwain now, bainta? Gwain where?’ He knew she had no intention of going anywhere. Nor would he now have let her go, for the idea of human companionship was suddenly a secret bliss to him. He must have someone to talk to, and Jenny would do as well as another.
She turned to him with that rueful large-eyed look with which, as a child, she had so often wheedled her father into obedience. ‘If so be you daun’t want me any more, Harry, I maun goo home again.’
‘Wantee? Why for should I wantee? But I want what you’ve got in y’r belly, darlen. And that be a son of mine? bainta?’ He had need of sons: lusty lads by whose labour, and by his own, he would make himself great. ‘When be your time comen, girl?’