CHAPTER XXX.
‘Ask not her name:
The light winds whisper it on every hand.’
‘Not a bit,’ says he, shaking his head. ‘Just the reverse. She is young and skittish, whilst I am old and dull.’
‘Not dull,’ says Susan.
‘Lazy, then. That comes of age, too, you know.’
‘You weren’t too lazy to hunt the hens just now,’ says Susan, as if combating some disagreeable remembrances; ‘and you weren’t too lazy to mount a ladder a month or so ago.’
‘Ah, Susan, that’s unkind! You shouldn’t hold up my past misdeeds to me. If you do, I’ll hold up your indiscretions to you—your lengthened conversation with a thief, for example. You know you did think me a thief then.’
Susan makes a gesture.
‘Oh yes, you did; there is no getting out of that. You even made me promise never to steal again. And I haven’t, not so much as the proverbial pin. That’s good of me, isn’t it? Shows signs of grace, eh? Really, Susan, I think you might say something. Give me one word of encouragement. But perhaps you don’t believe in my reformation. I know ever since that day when I was stealing the cherries you have had the lowest opinion of me.’