“I love to feel it in my face,” she said. “And since you prefer it behind it is well we are travelling in opposite directions.”
But the curate was not to be disposed of so easily. He turned his cycle and fell into step beside her. Prudence was taller than he; he was obliged to look up from under the wide brim of his hat when regarding her, a reversal of the usual order which occasioned him secret vexation.
“One so seldom gets a chance of seeing you alone,” he said. “I suppose it is because you are so much younger that your sisters make so much of you. They care for you tremendously. It is beautiful to observe their devotion.”
This view of her family’s watchful mistrust as a manifest sign of their devotion was new to Prudence and afforded her amusement. She wondered whether he was altogether sincere in what he said, or if he were indulging in unsuspected satire.
“I find it a little trying sometimes to be the family pet,” she returned demurely. “The position is rather like that of the cat of the house which gets called indoors when it would prefer to remain in the garden. I wonder myself at times why the cat obeys the summons.”
He experienced a little difficulty in following her train of thought.
“It’s thinking of the milk, I suppose,” he suggested, whereat Prudence laughed.
“I dare say that explains it—economic dependence explains many uncomfortable things. I haven’t much sympathy with the domesticated cat,” she added. “She should ignore the call, and remain in the garden and eat birds.”
“Surely,” he said, a little pained, “you wouldn’t wish it to do that? It’s so cruel.”
“So is eating mutton,” she answered flippantly; “but we all do it.”