She uttered a muffled laugh. "I'm getting apples for dessert."
"All in your Sunday clothes!" commented Bertie. "That comes of procrastination—the fatal British defect."
"I hate people who hustle," remarked Dot, hoping that her hot cheeks were not visible at that altitude.
"Meaning me?" said Bertie, settling himself for an argument.
"Oh, I suppose you can't help it," said Dot, filling her basket with feverish speed. "You Americans are all much too greedy to wait for anything. Am I very heavy?"
"Not in the least," said Bertie. "I like being sat on now and then. I admit the charge of greed but not of impatience. You misjudge me there."
At this point a large apple dropped suddenly upon his upturned face and, having struck him smartly between the eyes, fell with a thud to the ground.
Bertie said "Damn!" but luckily for Dot he did not budge an inch.
"I beg your pardon," he added a moment later.
"What for?" said Dot.