Hugh glanced at the stolid labourer in question, and smiled.
“Go an absolute mucker over the cabbages, what! Plant carrots by mistake.” His face was still very close to hers. “Well?”
“Well, what?” she murmured.
“It’s your turn,” he whispered. “I love you, Phyllis—just love you.”
“But it’s only two or three days since we met,” she said feebly.
“And phwat the divil has that got to do with it, at all?” he demanded. “Would I be wanting longer to decide such an obvious fact? Tell me,” he went on, and she felt his arm round her again forcing her to look at him—“tell me, don’t you care ... a little?”
“What’s the use?” She still struggled, but, even to her, it wasn’t very convincing. “We’ve got other things to do.... We can’t think of...”
And then this very determined young man settled matters in his usual straightforward fashion. She felt herself lifted bodily out of the car as if she had been a child: she found herself lying in his arms, with Hugh’s eyes looking very tenderly into her own and a whimsical grin round his mouth.
“Cars pass here,” he remarked, “with great regularity. I know you’d hate to be discovered in this position.”
“Would I?” she whispered. “I wonder...”