But Miss Stokes did not speak: she only stared with large, icy blue eyes at him. He became self-conscious, lifted up his chin, walked with his nose in the air, and whistled at random. So they went down the quiet, deserted grey lane. He was whistling the air: “I’m Gilbert, the filbert, the colonel of the nuts.”
At last she found her voice:
“Where’s Joe?”
“He thought you’d like a change: they say variety’s the salt of life—that’s why I’m mostly in pickle.”
“Where is he?”
“Am I my brother’s keeper? He’s gone his own ways.”
“Where?”
“Nay, how am I to know? Not so far but he’ll be back for supper.”
She stopped in the middle of the lane. He stopped facing her.
“Where’s Joe?” she asked.