As for the brother, his features express gathering and almost irrepressible disgust.
He kicks with his heavy boots, he whistles, and once now and then gives a species of yell.

Mademoiselle turns up her pretty nose, and readjusts her chevron gloves.
'Have you not got any cuffs, Jack ?' she asks, 'your wrists look so bare without them.' Jack makes no reply.

Another silence.

Presently he points with an expression meant to be sardonic at a distant farmhouse with his whip.
'Jenny's married,' he says, full well aware that this announcement will wake her up, for there had been of old a sort of semi-feud or rivalry between the two girls, daughters of neighbouring farmers, and both with pretensions to good looks.
'Who to ?' she asks eagerly.
'To old Billy L----; lots of tin.' 'Pshaw!' replies mademoiselle.

'Why, he's sixty, a nasty, dirty old wretch.' 'He has plenty of money,' suggests Jack.
'What you think plenty of money, perhaps.