“As for cigarettes,” he said, “I’ve got none, but ’appen you’ve got your own. I dunna smoke, mysen. Shall y’ eat summat?” He turned direct to Connie. “Shall t’eat a smite o’ summat, if I bring it thee? Tha can usually do wi’ a bite.” He spoke the vernacular with a curious calm assurance, as if he were the landlord of the inn.
“What is there?” asked Connie, flushing.
“Boiled ham, cheese, pickled wa’nuts, if yer like. Nowt much.”
“Yes,” said Connie. “Won’t you, Hilda?”
Hilda looked up at him.
“Why do you speak Yorkshire?” she said softly.
“That! That’s non Yorkshire, that’s Derby.”
He looked back at her with that faint, distant grin.
“Derby, then! Why do you speak Derby? You spoke natural English at first.”
“Did Ah though? An’ canna Ah change if Ah’n a mind to ’t? Nay nay, let me talk Derby if it suits me. If yo’n nowt against it.”
“It sounds a little affected,” said Hilda.
“Ay, ’appen so! An’ up i’ Tevershall yo’d sound affected.” He looked again at her, with a queer calculating distance, along his cheekbones: as if to say: Yi, an’ who are you?
He tramped away to the pantry for the food.
The sisters sat in silence. He brought another plate, and knife and fork. Then he said: