“Bags I the tall one?” said the spotty-faced youth.
Before Frederic could reply they had come up with the girls and his companion had greeted them with a tag from the pantomime of the last winter.
“We thought you wouldn’t come,” said the tall girl.
“No fear,” said the spotty-faced youth. “Trust me when I’ve spotted a winner.”
Frederic set the pace and they walked briskly up the road to Kersley Church. He hardly said a word, but his companion kept up a running fire of facetious chatter. At the church the tall girl and Haslam (that was the spotty-faced youth’s name) walked on and disappeared into the darkness of the moors after arranging to meet again at ten. Frederic was left under the lamp-post with the other girl. She was very little and slight, and she was rather poorly dressed. She looked shyly up at Frederic, and he said:
“You’re very pretty.”
“I like you better than the other one.”
“You see,” said Frederic, “I was at school in France.”
“Oh! France. Are they very wicked in France?”
“It depends what you mean by wicked. No more than they are here.”