And then he promised her to turn over a new leaf. He would not flirt any more. He would give up tippling with the bailiffs; he would read stiff agricultural literature; he would do anything--oh, what wouldn't he do?--if she would only stop crying.
"Give me your word of honour?" she asked, raising her wet, reddened eyes to his.
He gave it without hesitation.
Comforted and grateful, she smiled at him.
"You'll never repent it," she said. "I'll stand by you. I'll be a true friend, and do all I can for you."
"All that the two watch-dogs permit," he added.
To-day she didn't mind his saying "two watch-dogs." She shrugged her shoulders and said, "Yes, of course, what they permit."
Then they both laughed so heartily that they narrowly escaped falling into the ditch, after all.
CHAPTER XX
Then came a delightful time in which she played hide-and-seek with her emotions: drank long draughts from the never-exhausted fount of pleasures anticipated and rehearsed, fulfilled and enjoyed, which left behind them a delightful after-taste and a glow of memories. Every day brought new happiness and a boundless wealth of experience.