He looked at her in doubt. Then he said as though with a sudden thought:
“It’s you that’s ’eard tales o’ me, I’m thinkin’! But I’m comin’ to that. I’ve been wed afore, and I’ve a brat—a boy. But I ’oped ye wouldn’t let that stand in my way.”
She had looked up for a moment, but had as quickly looked away again, and, after waiting a little, he went on:
“You said just now you’d no ’ome. It ain’t comfortable for a young maid to ’ave no ’ome, and I’d work to give ye as good a one as most.”
“I don’t want no ’ome,” said she at last, sullenly.
He sighed a little. “It’s the brat ye’re afeard on,” murmured he sadly, shaking his head.
“No it ain’t then,” cried she quickly, almost fiercely. “I could love a brat well enough.” She stopped short, and if he could have distinguished her face in the dark he would have seen it flush hot and red. But he could not, and she moved away from him—moved away, but came back again. “There,” she said half surlily, “ye’ve got to know, and I’d as lief tell ye myself. I’ve ’ad a brat o’ my own,” and she looked away quickly.
For a moment he did not answer, then he seized her wrist roughly. “What, you’re married then?” he muttered. “Well, ’pon my word, I think ye might ha’ told a man when ye see’d as ’e were sweet on ye.”
She snatched her hand away. “I’m not married,” she cried roughly.
There was silence, but as he did not speak, she had to go on.