“Well, yes, I think I should, Mr Garrett,” she replied.
“Aha, yes. I dare say ’e’s bin putting you up to the ropes,” went on the old fellow, leering and winking at Claverton, and speaking in a tone which he thought was the perfection of genial banter; but which made its object wildly long to shy a bottle at his head. Ordinarily he looked upon old Garrett with a kind of amused contempt; but to be made the butt of his muzzy jests, that was quite another thing. So, completely ignoring him, he drew Lilian’s attention to an effect of light and shade high above them on the cliff opposite.
“Now we’ll make for the cave,” he said, as, feeding operations over, pipes began to appear.
“Yes. I’ll get my drawing things,” answered Lilian, rising.
“Are you going up to the cave?” said Miss Smithson, a pretty, fair-haired girl, who lived in the neighbourhood and whom they saw a good deal of. “That’ll be delightful—I should so like to see it. Mr Gough, will you come, too; there are some beautiful ferns up there?”
Gough assented, while Claverton inwardly anathematised poor Lucy Smithson, little thinking how unjustly, for she was really going out of her way to render him a service.
The four started. No one else seemed inclined to embark in the undertaking, having had enough knocking about at present, they said; old Garrett adding: “We old fogies don’t feel up to climbing, so we’ll just sit and ’ave a nice comfortable chat and a smoke.”
“And a big drink,” added Claverton, cynically, to his companion. “What an infliction that old fool can become!”
“He is rather overpowering,” assented Lilian. “Who can the old fellow have been?”
“A bricklayer, most likely, or a clodhopper of some sort. These fellows save a little coin, or make a lucky venture at the Diamond Fields, and buy a farm, and then, there they are. There’s precious little class distinction here.”