After a while Prescott stopped his binder and opened a box attached to it. He closed it sharply, as if annoyed, called to one of the men gathering up the sheaves, and then walked toward the house.
“Run out of twine; I’ll have to get some,” he explained to Gertrude.
“You look tired,” she said, stopping him. “You have been working very hard.”
“I don’t feel quite as bright as usual,” he confessed. “It’s the heat, I think, but I’ve turned out at four o’clock every morning since harvest began.”
“Then why not take a few minutes’ rest? I’ll make you a cup of tea; I was going in to get some ready. It’s an English custom.”
He indicated his attire.
“I’d be glad, but I haven’t time to make myself presentable.”
“I’ll excuse that.” Gertrude smiled and added with unusual boldness: “You don’t seem to know that your dress is really most artistic. It suits you.”
He bowed to her.
“I’m flattered. This costume was adopted with a view to economy and comfort. The worst of a man’s wearing smart clothes is that whenever he wants to do anything useful he has to take them off.”