He got out of our way without looking back, and only nodded to us as we passed. I saw the bowl of eggs in his hand, and knew by the defiant way in which he carried it that he was ashamed of it.
“Your fellow-labourer seems to have had a peaceful time collecting eggs whilst you were sticking the potatoes,” said Nugent, with again the suggestion of a sneer. “He certainly does not look as if he had done as much hard work as you.”
“No; he has not run all the way across a field, as I did just now.”
Nugent coloured. “I deserved that,” he said, and laughed. Then, after a moment’s pause, “And I don’t think I did deserve your taking such trouble to stop me.”
“Of course, you may have some inner sense of unworthiness,” I answered, mollified, “that must remain between you and your own conscience; but it was very rude of me not to have been at home, and I did not mind the run half so much as writing the letter of apology which I should have felt you had a right to.”
“And which I should not have believed,” said Nugent. “It was so wet that I should have been quite certain that you were sitting over the fire with Willy all the time, and told Roche to send me away because you felt as if playing violin accompaniments would be a bore.”
“Appearances would have been against me,” I admitted; “but I should have enclosed my boots as circumstantial evidence”—advancing one disreputable foot from beneath the rug—“and perhaps also one of the potato-cakes which I had ordered specially for your benefit.”
A loud twanging snap from the violin-case under the seat startled us both.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Nugent; “that is the E string, and I have not another with me.”
“Then we can’t have any music,” I said, with unaffected dismay. “What a pity! So I brought you back for nothing, after all.”