“Same as me, I suppose,” she said with desperate lightness. “It’s only that young man who fancies himself a-driving and a-blowing.”
“A young man come to steal my business!”
“Well, one can’t lock that up! Come in, Gran’fer.”
“Oi’ll lock him up! What’s the thief’s name?”
“He’s not a thief. It’s the young man from Frog Farm.”
“That whippersnapper! Come with a coach to drive over you and me——!”
“That’s just what he’d try to do if we stand here! Come inside—the jackanips’ll only think we’re envying his bonkka turn-out.”
The argument and the touch of idiom succeeded, though she could feel his form shaking with passion as she drew him in. “Why did ye keep it from me?” he asked pitifully.
“Because I knew you’d get in a state.” As she shot the bolts, the better to shut Will out, she realized that her beating heart was somehow left outside, and that it was drawing her after it through doors howsoever barred and windows howsoever fastened, if only to watch the pageant of his passing.
“A funeral coach,” the ancient was mumbling, “you and Jinny may well call it so, ole sluggaby.”