“What a memory the young man has got,” said Jona, wistfully.
“Yes, but what did you mean?”
“Well, they were what is called conversation. You talk too, you know, sometimes.”
“But that doesn’t tell me what you meant.”
“They meant,” she said in a plain, matter-of-fact way, “that I ought not to have married Bill. I ought to have married you, Lukie. My mistake entirely. Don’t apologize.”
She jerked herself backward, and he fell off the tree. He lay on the grass moaning. “O crikey! O crikey! O crikey, crikey, crikey!”
2
He got up slowly. He was entirely covered with small pieces of dried grass. Jona came round the end of the tree and began picking pieces of grass off him.
“You’re in a mess,” she said.