“Your end of the box is not under cover.”
“Why should it be?”
“It might rain and spoil your things—I’m sure I saw a drop.” She tugged at the handle and the trunk slid along the porch and some inches over the sill. Unostentatiously he pulled it back a bit, but she jerked it in again. “Do leave it where I can see the things,” she said with simulated fretfulness. “Good gracious!” She drew out the frock-coat he had sported for the Flippance wedding. “What’s this grandeur for?”
“Oh, for funerals and things like that!”
“In the Bush? And fancy packing it next to the blanket. It’s all over hairs. I’ll brush it and sell it for you—Ravens will be wanting one for the wedding.”
“What wedding?” he demanded fiercely.
“Mr. Skindle’s, of course. Weren’t you invited?”
He winced, and unrebuked she threw his wedding raiment over the provision-chest. “We’d best keep this on top,” she said, drawing out the blanket, “else you won’t get at it.”
“I expect you’ll be married by the time I’m back,” he remarked with aloofness.
“Not I. I’ll never marry now. I’ve seen too much of men’s foolishness.”