Rudolph got up and drew back a step, standing in the long, rank grass which bordered the clover field in the shade of the trees of the plantation.
“If I say yes, I suppose you will say I’m being rude again!” said Mabin, as she threw up at him, from under her big shady hat, a shy glance so full of attraction in its unconscious coquetry that Rudolph also forgot the budget, and thought he had never seen any girl look half so pretty as she did.
“I should say,” said he, bending his head as he spoke, and looking with great apparent interest at the work in her hands, “that you were unkind.”
There was another pause. Never before, even in the days of her wooden shyness, had Mabin found speech with him so difficult. A lump seemed to rise in her throat whenever she had a remark ready, and for fear of betraying the fact she remained silent altogether.
It was odd, too, that Rudolph, who had always been so fluent of speech himself, and had made her seem so dull, had now become infected with her own stupid reticence.
“You are a long time finding one,” said he at last.
“Yes. I—I seem to have lost all the fine ones,” replied Mabin, bending her head still lower than before over her needle case.
“Let me help you. Give me the work first, so that I can judge what size you want.”
“How can you tell—a man?” asked Mabin with indignation.
And in her contempt she looked up at him again.