“As to that, same here. It’s true I’m fishing, but only to kill time, same as you. I’m not in any mood for pleasure, I can tell you, woman.”
“I dare say not,” she answered. “People often fall back on little things when big things are hanging over them. I know how you feel, because I feel the same.”
“You don’t know how I feel,” he answered. “And don’t you dare to say you do, please. What do you know about feeling? You’re the senseless rubbish that can hurt others, but you’re not built to suffer yourself more than a stinging nettle.”
She felt no pang of anger at his rough challenge. After Kellock’s steadfast voice, the ferocious accents of Ned were rather agreeable than not. His tone for once was deep, as an angry bull. She liked it, and thought he looked exceedingly well.
“As long as he don’t throw me in the water, I’ll speak to him,” thought Medora.
Ned expected a stinging reply to his preliminary challenge, but she did not answer it. Instead, she spoke of an utter triviality.
“What d’you think’s in my mind—to show how little things get hold on you? The first thing that come in it when I saw you so close was pleasure, because I was wearing a pink sunbonnet—that being your favourite colour for me. But Mr. Kellock don’t know what I wear.”
He started with genuine astonishment.
“What in thunder be women made of? You can babble like that and pick flowers, and be a hen devil all the time?”
“If I am a hen devil, then I’m in the proper place for devils, and that’s hell,” she said. “D’you think a woman can’t pick flowers and wear pink and yet be broken to pieces heart and soul?”