“Why, Miss Baxter, to be sure.”
“Stupid! I mean her apprentice. The one that wears green gloves. She’s one of the teachers in our Sunday school. Oh! You know very well, sir.”
“I suppose you mean Miss Pounder.”
“What a horrid name: but what could you expect from a girl that wears green gloves. You really must buy her a pair of another colour. But there’s no great change from Pounder to Pinder. That will be one comfort for her. But I meant her Christian name.”
“Upon my word,” said Tom, “I haven’t an idea. It may be Jezebel for aught I know or care.”
“But I thought….”
“Yes, you thought?”
“Oh! nothing,” said Dorothy, “and here, thank goodness, we’re at the reservoir at last. Oh! isn’t the view down the valley just lovely?”
“It is,” said Tom, but his eyes were on Dorothy’s beaming face.
They lingered for some moments on the embankment of the vast sheet of water, each wrapt in thought. It was Dorothy who spoke.