She went to the door with him.
'When are you coming up?' he said, jerking his head in the direction,
presumably, of his own home.
'I'll come tomorrow afternoon,' she said brightly. Between Fanny and Mrs.
Goodall, his mother, there was naturally no love lost.
Again she gave him an awkward little kiss, and said good-night.
'You can't wonder, you know, child, if he doesn't seem so very keen,'
said her aunt. 'It's your own fault.'
'Oh, Aunt, I couldn't stand him when he was keen. I can do with him a lot
better as he is.'
The two women sat and talked far into the night. They understood each
other. The aunt, too, had married as Fanny was marrying: a man who was no
companion to her, a violent man, brother of Fanny's father. He was dead,
Fanny's father was dead.
Poor Aunt Lizzie, she cried woefully over her bright niece, when she had
gone to bed.
Fanny paid the promised visit to his people the next afternoon. Mrs.
Goodall was a large woman with smooth-parted hair, a common, obstinate
woman, who had spoiled her four lads and her one vixen of a married
daughter. She was one of those old-fashioned powerful natures that
couldn't do with looks or education or any form of showing off. She
fairly hated the sound of correct English. She _thee'd_ and _tha'd_ her
prospective daughter-in-law, and said:
'I'm none as ormin' as I look, seest ta.'
Fanny did not think her prospective mother-in-law looked at all orming,
so the speech was unnecessary.
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