Mrs. Price, demurely: "It will be a wonder if the farm doesn't prosper this year, considering the amount of help we are getting from the Army! It's very good of you, I'm sure. The bread is all into the tins now, Elizabeth? That's right; perhaps the Colonel will help you put them into the oven with this."
She gave him the immensely long-handled oven-shovel. On this Elizabeth set loaf after loaf in the tins, and he shoved one after another into the farther part of the hot oven.
Then Mrs. Price turned to get water from the pump which is set just over the spring in the scullery, and then she bustled away on one of the thousand odd jobs that await the farmer's women-folk at every turn. Or did she do it on purpose to leave those two together, working in the cosy, fragrant place?
For some minutes they were silent as a couple of working ants. Not a sound but the scraping of that shovel against the oven-floor!
Then he began, very gently, "D'you know who I feel sorry for?"
"No," from Elizabeth, setting her last tin loaf on the shovel. "Who?"
"Er ... People who have to get engaged in town," was his unexpected reply. "Such a beastly rush. All mixed up with—er—taxis, and catching trains and crowds of people in restaurants all watching you! Having to go to the theatre.... And then the lights going up, or the curtain. And people all hissing 'Ssh!' when you want to talk to the girl. Everybody jostling you. Not a bit of peace, you know. No room! No—er—time to say anything or feel anything. Don't you know?"
I can picture the Man-hater suppressing her happy little fluster at this; taking up the fruit tarts that had to go in in front of the oven, after the loaves.
Colonel Fielding's shy but deliberate voice went on: "I think one's—er—courtship ought to come in pleasant places. Where there's quiet. And nice things about. And jolly things to do. Making hay. Or ... bread. Don't you think so?"
Of course she thought so. The fields, the farm; any girl might envy Elizabeth the scenes that set first love for her, without hurry, without artificiality or fatigue! But I expect Elizabeth only flushed deeper and deeper pink, half with emotion, half with the heat of that oven. Little bright beads of moisture had gathered about her forehead and neck; annoyed, she brushed them away with the sleeve of her overall, hoping that he did not see.