"More comfortable, at least."
"I am quite comfortable, thank you."
"But you have nothing to sit on."
"Neither have you."
"Oh, I have my work to do; and besides, I often prefer standing."
"So do I, often,—very often," says Mr. Rodney, sadly still, but genially.
"Are you sure?"—with cold severity. "It is only two days ago since you told me you loved nothing better than an easy-chair."
"Loved nothing better than a—oh, how you must have misunderstood me!" says Rodney, with mournful earnestness, liberally sprinkled with reproach.
"I have indeed misunderstood you in many ways." This is unkind, and the emphasis makes it even more so. "Norah, if the butter is finished, you can go and feed the calves." There is a business-like air about her whole manner eminently disheartening to a lover out of court.
"Very good, miss; I'm going," says the woman, and with a last touch to the butter she covers it over with a clean wet cloth and moves to the yard door. The two chickens on the threshold, who have retreated and advanced a thousand times, now retire finally with an angry "cluck-cluck," and once more silence reigns.