More than I should like to have, I thought to myself, as I went on, for his face was spotted with white patches, and I knew how they must tingle.
Ten minutes after, I was in the lane, in time to meet Polly Hopley, in her best bonnet and with a key in her hand, going up to the cottage door.
She smiled as she saw me, hurried to the cottage, unlocked the door, and stood back for me to enter.
“Been out, Polly?” I said.
“Yes, sir, of course. Father took me to see the cricket match. Doctor Browne told father we might come into the field, and it were lovely. But why didn’t you play?”
I told her, and she expressed her sympathy. Then, in a very decided way,—
“Sweets and puffs aren’t good for you, sir, and I won’t sell you one to-day.”
“I don’t want any, Polly,” I replied. “I was going to ask you to sell me a cup of tea.”
“And I won’t do that neither, sir; but I’m going to make myself some directly, and if you’ll condescend to sit down in father’s big chair and have some, I should be glad.”
To the girl’s great delight, I accepted her offer. The kettle hanging over the smouldering fire of wood ashes was soon boiling, and I partook of a delicious tea, with fresh water-cresses from the spring, and cream in my tea from the General’s dairy, while Polly cut bread and butter, and chatted about “father’s” troubles with the poachers, and about the baits he had been getting ready for our next fishing visit to the ponds. Then again about the cricket match, and we were carrying on an animated conversation when the door was thrown quickly open, and Bob Hopley appeared.