“Shall I read it?” murmured Jinny, putting forth her hand.
“Nay, nay!” He snatched the note back and tore it into careful pieces. “Ain’t fit to be seen.”
“No more am I,” said Jinny with an uneasy laugh, and again she essayed to escape.
“Stop!” commanded the ancient, kindled afresh. “Willie’s got to tell you what’s in they scraps.”
Will was silent.
“Don’t stand gawmin’. Out with the abomination.”
But no sound issued from the young man’s lips. It was not merely that this new housemaidenly figure seemed safe enough even in Chelmsford, wrapped in its own sweet domesticity, and that adjurations designed for the minx bade fair to blunt themselves against this sober angelhood; but that the girl’s radiance against the littered gloom within and the rainfall without, robbed him literally of breath.
“Speak out, Willie!” said the Gaffer, softened to contempt by his obvious confusion.
“Perhaps he hasn’t brought his tongue,” suggested Jinny, recovering herself.
“Then Oi’ll lend him mine. You ain’t to goo to Che’msford, he says.”