“Who's the chorus?”
“The lady?”
“Yes. She's watching us as if she didn't quite approve, you know—just as if she didn't catch on.”
“She's the head housekeeper of the farm. Perhaps you would prefer to have her show you the dairy; shall I call her?”
The figure in question was very short and stout, with voluminous petticoats.
“Please don't; I'll stay without your setting that paperweight on me. But here's the dairy. Don't let her come inside among those pans of fresh milk with that smile, or there'll be trouble.”
The young girl paused too, made a slight gesture with her hand, and the figure passed on as they entered the dairy. It was beautifully clean and fresh. With a persistence that he quickly recognized as mischievous and ironical, and with his characteristic adaptability accepted with even greater gravity and assumption of interest, she showed him all the details. From thence they passed to the farmyard, where he hung with breathless attention over the names of the cows and made her repeat them. Although she was evidently familiar with the subject, he could see that her zeal was fitful and impatient.
“Suppose we sit down,” he said, pointing to an ostentatious rustic seat in the center of the green.
“Sir down?” she repeated wonderingly. “What for?”
“To talk. We'll knock off and call it half a day.”