'Write a poem instead, and work off the steam!' said Felix, turning down the lamp to get rid of that most unpoetical-looking poet.
Will had announced an intention of walking to Penbeacon in early morning, and when rallied by Angela on having overslept himself, the great audacious slap-dash fellow proved to have turned as shy as a girl. He kept on blushing up to the ears, looking sheepish, and losing opportunities from sheer awkwardness. If the space had been as small, or Felix as punctilious as at John's courtship, the crisis could hardly have come on; but Felix had put off going to Bexley, to see the affair through, and was resolved that the mutual infliction of misery should last no longer. So finding matters in statu quo at dinner-time, he ordered the waggonet, and declaring suddenly that he would protect Cherry through the visits she had to return, he packed in three sisters, declaring, with a twinkle in his eye, that he knew Bobbie wanted to finish her sketch of the church. Clement was gone to the far end of the village, and Bernard was fishing, so that the coast was clear.
But the drawing went on in solitude under the cedar for a quarter of an hour; and when at last a sort of irresolute saunter resulted in a big loosely-built personage reclining on the grass at the sketcher's feet, a good many more minutes were spent in pulling up tufts, while she was too glad to have him there to suggest that he was doing the work of a dozen chaffer-grubs. Indeed, she soon saw that he was ill at ease, and her painting felt the influence of his restlessness, which began to alarm her, though she durst not disturb it. He might mean to have it out with her—he might be composing a poem—to which last opinion she inclined when he at length lay prone on his back, his straw hat entirely over his face; and she expected either a heroic utterance, or a hasty demand for a pencil and a page of her sketch-book. Instead of which, after a deep sigh, came the portentous words—'Double-distilled donkey!'
'Indeed, I don't think he's quite that!' justice compelled her to say.
'There! I knew how it would be! Nothing but an unmitigated idiot could have thought otherwise for a moment!'
'Thought what?' said Robina—not exactly liking to consider the 'unmitigated idiot' meant to apply to herself, the most obvious antecedent.
'Why, I was ten thousand asses for coming out here!'
'Indeed!'
Something in the tone of that 'indeed' raised him to a sitting posture, with his arms embracing his knees, a resolute and deplorable attitude. 'I say, Robina, tell me at once, and put an end to it, whether you care for that sprig of nobility!'
'I!' she cried, her eyes flashing. 'How can you suspect me!' and indignation made it sound like—'insult me!'