Oh no, he wouldn't eat the moo cows there and he wasn't going to light a cig in there, either. By now, he had been semi-quasi-mostly trained not to smoke in the house, and especially not anywhere near the pregnant wife. He does have some scruples left. Drinking, however, was fair game. That's why he was pouring himself some scotch. As he did so, Pete smirked around the unlit cigarette clamped between his lips and grumbled 'temptress' at the meat-covered finger his wife aimed at him.
"Hm, maybe the ghost is off crying in a corner or the likes. Serves 'er right for scaring others," was Pete's verdict on the subject of strange little ghost girls. "Hope that mends up, mate? That's got to be a right pain in the arse, hobbling about on those things while tending to a farm, eh?"