Jason looked up at him from where he sat upon the poplar-root, and the whimsical manner in which he hugged his coattails was accentuated by a smile of hobgoblinish merriment.

“You mean to live in it?” he remarked. “You and your mother? I don’t believe old Urquhart would consider such a thing for a moment! These squires like to show off their servants’ quarters. They like to take their guests round and say: ‘That’s where my head-gardener lives. He works at his garden when he’s finished with mine! Those are “Boule de neige” roses!’ But when it comes to honest people lodging in places like that⁠—goodness! Urquhart wouldn’t consider it. But you can try. But my advice to you is to be very careful in this matter. You never know what troubles you’ll have when you deal with people like this Monk. But you can try. There! you’d better go off with him. He’s peeping and spying at this moment. He’s thinking I’m holding you back because of the money you pay us.”