“Whatever is that Bill doing there?” she cried.
Dolly looked, and saw for the first time that the nameless farm-labourer was crouching under the beech, his browns and yellows blending with the bark behind him.
“You go out o’ that, Bill!” screamed the farmer’s wife.
“What be I to do?” he asked humbly, slouching forward.
“Go, cut chaff in the barn.” He nodded and strolled away, a comical figure in his mud-crusted boots, his strap-tied corduroys and his almond-coloured skin.
“Well, then, you’ve taken Elias,” said the mother, passing her hand round her daughter’s waist. “I seed him a-kissing your flower. Well, I’m sorry for Adam, for he is a well-grown young man, a proper young man, blue ribbon, with money in the Post Office. Still some one must suffer, else how could we be purified. If the milk’s left alone it won’t ever turn into butter. It wants troubling and stirring and churning. That’s what we want, too, before we can turn angels. It’s just the same as butter.”
Dolly laughed. “I have not taken Elias yet,” said she.
“No? What about Adam then?”
“Nor him either.”
“Oh, Dolly girl, can you not take advice from them that is older. I tell you again that you’ll lose them both.”