“Well, he was a-wagging his chin up and down and making sounds like words; and so was you, Fanny, my dear.”
“Oh, how can you say so!”
“This way,” said the old man, facing her and speaking very deliberately. “What was he saying to you?”
“I—I wasn’t—”
“Stop a moment,” said the old man. “Mr Arthur Prayle’s such a religious-spoken sort o’ gent, that I dessay he was giving you all sorts o’ good advice, and I’m sure he wouldn’t like you to tell a lie.”
“I’m not telling a lie; I’m not.—Oh, you wicked, deceitful, spying old thing!” she cried, bursting into tears. “How dare you come watching me!”
“I didn’t come watching you, my dear. I was down there with a pot, picking up the big grey slugs that come out o’ the field into the garden; for they feeds the ducks, and saves my plants as well.—Now, lookye here, my dear; you’re a very pretty girl, and it’s very nice to be talked to by a young man, I dare say. I never cared for it myself; but young women do.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!” cried the girl, flaming up.
“’Cause I’m an old man, and knows the ways o’ the world, my dear. Mr Arthur comes down the garden to me and gives me bits o’ religious instruction and advice like; but if he wants to give any to you, I think he ought to do it in the house, and give it to Martha Betts and cook at the same time.”
“It’s all a wicked story,” cried Fanny angrily; “and I won’t stop here to be insulted!”