She stopped me peremptorily as, breakfast over, I was hastening out with all the speed I could muster, and asked me if I didn’t want her company that morning.
“No,” I answered; “I am well enough to get about by myself now.”
“Very well,” she said. “Then you must do without me altogether for the future.”
She turned on her heel and I could only look after her in dumb agony. Then I crept down into the yard and confided my grief to the old cart wheels.
Presently, raising my head, I saw her standing before me, her hands under her apron, her face grave with an expression, half of concern, half of defiance.
“Now, if you please,” she said, “I want to know the meaning of this?”
“Of what?” I asked, with wretched evasiveness.
“You know—your manner toward me this morning.”
“I have done nothing,” I muttered.
“You have insulted me, sir. Is it because I kissed you last night?”