Martha’s brief mood of superstition passed. “Simon, you’re as sober as a man that’s never had th’ chance to step into an ale-house, and you’re over old to be courting-daft——”
“Not so old, my lass,” he broke in, with the heat she had tempted from him. “I should know, at my age, how to court a woman.”
“I believe you do, Simon—if nobbut you’d try your hand, like.”
“Lads go daft about ye women—think ye’re all made up of buttercups and kiss-me-quicks. But I know different.”
“Oh, ay?” asked Martha gently. “What d’ye know, Simon?”
“Naught so much, lass—only that women are like nettles. Handle ’em tenderly, and they’ll gi’e ye a rash ye can feel for a week o’ days. But grasp ’em—and they’re soft as lettuces.”
“I allus did say older men had more sense than lads. You’re right, Simon. Grasp us——”
“Ay, another day,” said Simon—bluntly, and with a hint of fear. “For my part, I’m too full o’ Sir Jasper’s business to heed any sort o’ moonshine.”
He was half up the road already, but she enticed him back.
“These men you saw riding in the sky, Simon? You’ve frightened me—and I was allus feared o’ ghosties.”