"Well, then," said Pam, "... you understand me, don't you, Ginger?"
"Ah 'm jealous ah do," said Ginger despondently.
"And you 're not angry with me ... for what I 've said to you?"
"Nay, ah 'm not angry wi' ye," said Ginger. "Ah 'm only sorry. Ah misdoot ah s'll not be i' very good fettle for my supper when time comes."
"You 'll shake hands, though," said Pam, catching a certain indication that he was about to depart without.
"Ay, ah sewd like, sin' ye 're good enough to ask me," Ginger acknowledged eagerly, blundering hold of her fingertips, and dropping them like hot coals as soon as he felt the desire to linger over them. "'Appen ye 'll let me ... shek 'ands wi' ye ... noo an' agean," he asked Pam humbly, turning his coat collar up to go—not that there was any rain at the time, but that the action seemed somehow, in his conception of things, to befit the hopeless finality of departure.
"Whenever you like, Ginger," Pam promised him, with moist lashes.
"Thank ye," said Ginger, making for the door. "Ah div n't know ... at ah s'll trouble ye so offens ... but may'ap it mud save me ... fro' gannin altagether to bad if ah was ... to shak 'em noo an' agean."
And with a husky farewell he dipped out of the office.
CHAPTER IX