“What, one o’ my Ma’shal Niels?” cried the old gardener. “I should just think not. Besides,” he added with a grim smile, “yaller wouldn’t suit your complexion.”
“Now, don’t talk stuff,” cried the girl. “Yellow does suit dark people.—Do cut me one, there’s a dear good man.”
“Yes,” said the old man; “and then, next time you get washing out your bits o’ lace and things, you’ll go hanging ’em to dry on my trained plants in the sun.”
“No; I won’t. There, I promise you I’ll never do so any more.”
“Till nex’ time.—I say, Fanny, when’s Mr Arthur going back to London?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl, rather sharply. “How can I tell?”
“Oh, I thought p’r’aps he might have been telling you last night.”
“Telling me last night!” echoed the girl. “Where should he be telling me?”
“Why, down the field-walk, to be sure, when he was a-talking to you.”
“That I’m sure he wasn’t,” cried the girl, changing colour.