An effusion of spirits prompted her to lay her hands on his shoulders, kiss him on each cheek, and cry, 'O Lance, you are the very sweetest boy!'
'Sweetest treble, you mean,' said Lance quaintly; 'if you had only heard me! You should see how the old ladies in the stalls peep and whisper, and how Bill Harewood opens his mouth rather wider than it will go, and they think it is he.'
'Not for fun, Lance?'
'Well, I believe all their jaws are hung on looser than other people's. But I say, ain't you dying of thirst?'
'Perhaps Mrs. Harewood will give us some tea when she comes in.'
'If you trust to that—'
'O Lance!' she cried, alarmed at seeing him coolly ring the bell.
'Bless you, she's forgotten all about you and tea and everything! They are drinking it by the gallon in the tents; and by and by she'll roll in, ready to cry that you've had none, and mad with herself and me for giving you none; and the fire will be out, and the kettle will boil about ten minutes after you are off by the train. We'll have some this minute.'
'But, Lance—'
'But, Cherry, ain't I a walking Sahara with roaring at the tip-top of my voice to lead the clod-hoppers? How they did bellow! I owe it as a duty to the Chapter to wet my whistle.'