“Please don’t come interfering.” In June’s manner was a touch of hauteur.
Beneath the tan of East Anglia, the young man coloured. “But you’ll spoil your hands,” he ventured.
“My hands are no affair of yours,” said June, a little touched, and trying not to show it.
“Let me take over the kitchen grate for the future. And if you don’t mind, I’ll scrub the shop floor.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to do?” said June, with amused scorn.
“I’d like to do all the really rough jobs if I may.”
“For why?”
The Sawney had given his reason already, and, in spite of a growing embarrassment, he stuck to his guns.
Said June sternly: “You mustn’t come interfering.” Yet the light in her eyes was not anger. “You’ve got your department and I’ve got mine. Windmills are your department. Blackleading kitchen grates and cleaning floors won’t help you to find windmills. Besides, you have the shop to look after, and you have to go out and find things for Uncle Si, and study art, and talk to customers, and goodness knows what you haven’t got to do.”
“Well, if you don’t mind,” said William tenaciously, “I’ll get in the coal, anyway.”