Bertha blushed, and turned away. The mother laughed. A light footstep sounded on the echoing boards of the little bridge, and the human blackbird, marching gaily in time to his tune, flourished a walking-stick in salutation as he approached.
‘Good-afternoon, Mrs. Fellowes,’ cried the newcomer. ‘Good-afternoon, Miss Fellowes.’
They both returned his salutation, and he stood before them smilingly, holding his stick lightly by the middle, and swinging it hither and thither, as if keeping time to an inward silent tune. His feet were planted a little apart, he carried his head well back, and his figure was very alert and lithe. He made great use of his lips in talking, and whatever he said seemed a little overdone in emphasis. His expression was eager, amiable, and sensitive, and it changed like the complexion of water in variable weather. He was a bit of a dandy in his way, too. His clothes showed his slim and elastic figure to the best advantage, and a bright-coloured neckerchief with loose flying ends helped out a certain air of festal rural opera which belonged to him.
‘I passed Thistlewood on my way here,’ he said, laughing brightly. ‘He looked as cheerful as a frog. Did y’ ever notice what a cheerful-looking thing a frog is?’
He made a face ludicrously like the creature he mentioned. The old woman laughed outright, and Bertha smiled, though somewhat unwillingly.
‘I don’t like to hear Mr. Thistlewood made game of, Mr. Protheroe,’ she said a moment later.
‘Don’t you, Miss Fellowes?’ asked Mr. Protheroe. ‘Then it shan’t be done in your presence again.’
‘That means it may be done out of my presence, I suppose,’ the girl said coldly.
‘No, nor out of it,’ said the young fellow, bowing with something of a flourish, ‘if it displeases you.’
‘Come in, Lane, my lad,’ said the mother, genially. ‘I’ve got the poultry to look after at this hour. Bertha ‘ll tek care of you till I come back again.’