“Wouldn’t what, little wife?” he drawled, reaching for her lazily from his comfortable seat in the corner of the sofa.
“I am not your wife,” she said coldly.
“Pretty near,” he laughed; “too near for such little exhibitions of prudery.”
His eyes, vividly blue and sparkling under their long curling lashes, met hers with a look which she silently resented.
“I have sold the apples on the trees,” she said presently, seating herself near the window, under pretence of getting a better light on her sewing.
David yawned audibly, and thrust his hands into his trousers pockets.
“You have—eh?”
“Yes; and for a good price, as prices go, Peg says.”
“How much?” he wanted to know.
She told him, and he shook his head.