"But the Parson? He said nothing about providing veal, I suppose?"
"He did not. To be precise he confined his conversation to roses, and the dale, and a very charming old gentleman he was."
"As you may guess," said Carter savagely, "I don't thank you for going to inspect my people like that."
"I don't recollect," said Miss O'Neill with much sweetness, "ever asking you to thank me. By accident I stumble across some delightful people; I have the opportunity of enjoying their society, and for the sake of seeing more of them I lived in the village for three whole days. They've asked me to go and stay with them next summer, and I'm going. I don't see how that can annoy you, as you've given up going near them."
"I think that crack in the gasolene pipe will stand another coat of seccotine now," said Carter, and moved the lamp and knelt once more in the dusty road.
"It seems a pity," said Miss O'Neill musingly.
"I don't see what business it is of yours anyway," Carter snapped.
"Oh, but surely it's my car that you're so kindly working at. And I do think it's a pity you should have all that trouble with that nasty, smelling, sticky seccotine, when it will all have to be scratched off to-morrow, and the hole soldered up."
Carter laughed in spite of his rage. "You didn't mean that in the least, but I'll own up you drew me smartly enough. It is a pity—I mean the other thing—I love the dale, and I'm about as fond as a man can be of my people. But when you're in love with a girl, and you've promised to marry her, well, other things have to slide."
"Ah, love," said Kate thoughtfully. "I wonder what being in love is really like? I must try it some day as an experience. It seems to alter one's obligations. I should like you to hear my friend the Parson on obligations."