“Did she make ’em, now?” said Mr. Barkis, always leaning forward, in his slouching way, on the footboard of the cart with an arm on each knee.
“Peggotty, do you mean, sir?”
“Ah!” said Mr. Barkis. “Her.”
“Yes. She makes all our pastry, and does all our cooking.”
“Do she though?” said Mr. Barkis. He made up his mouth as if to whistle, but he didn’t whistle. He sat looking at the horse’s ears, as if he saw something new there; and sat so, for a considerable time. By and by, he said:
“No sweethearts, I b’lieve?”
“Sweetmeats did you say, Mr. Barkis?” For I thought he wanted something else to eat, and had pointedly alluded to that description of refreshment.
“Hearts,” said Mr. Barkis. “Sweet hearts; no person walks with her!”
“With Peggotty?”
“Ah!” he said. “Her.”
“Oh, no. She never had a sweetheart.”
“Didn’t she, though!” said Mr. Barkis.
Again he made up his mouth to whistle, and again he didn’t whistle, but sat looking at the horse’s ears.
“So she makes,” said Mr. Barkis, after a long interval of reflection, “all the apple parsties, and doos all the cooking, do she?”