I tried.
Once or twice I'd been allowed to try at home, long ago. But how I'd forgotten!
Heavens! How difficult it was! If Clover were the easiest cow in that stable, I should have been sorry to try the most unyielding one! It was almost impossible to me at first to squeeze out even a drop of milk.
I worked away, and quite suddenly I realized that it was coming mightily hard on my fingers and forearms, this work that seemed to be no work at all to Mrs. Price, and easy enough to the two other girls.
"Do you know how long it takes to make a milker, a really first-class milker? Three years," declared the farmer's wife impressively. "And even then she has to be born as well as made, like. After all, it's an art, same as playing the piano. But you can learn to milk quite well, quite so that the cows get milked all right, in a month, say. You'll do all right, only work."
I worked without much success, but doggedly. I was sweating with effort under my hat and into my mesh garments, lent by Sybil. I was flushed, but determined; terrified of hurting Clover, delighted when a meagre spurt of milk did reward me, attentive to Mrs. Price's instructions, and afraid I was showing myself up as the completest fool, when—
Yes, this naturally was the moment that that young man's voice made itself heard behind me. He must have come in by the other door farther down the stable.
"Good evening, Mrs. Price!"
"Good evening, Captain Holiday. Have you come to have another look round?"
"You don't mind, I know," said the direct, uncompromising tone, which I could guess was accompanied by that friendly and ingratiating smile.