“Yes,” she said, staring at the grass path. Then she put out a hand, not touching him, only nearly, and the colour in her cheeks deepened until they were like some exquisite fruit that a young sun had kissed in orchards that belonged to the youth of the world. But Elizabeth was always greatly annoyed at her trick of blushing, and compared herself bitterly to a beetroot.
“You were going to say!” remarked Andy.
“Oh, there’s Mr. Stamford coming. I must tell you. I’ve been to see Mrs. Simpson,” said Elizabeth.
“Well?” said Andy, taken aback.
“You wanted it for her. And I bid against you until you had to pay pounds more than you need have done. And you must have had so many expenses getting into your house. And it was all so idiotic of me. My sister always says I’m an idiot, and I am. I only stopped when I did because I hadn’t another penny until next July.”
“Why”—Andy stood still, facing her, and the most wonderful scent from all the sun-warmed lilacs blew across them—enveloped them—“why—you wanted it for Mrs. Simpson too?”
“You surely couldn’t think,” said Elizabeth, “that I wanted that beast for myself!”
“You thought I did,” muttered Andy.
“Oh—a man—that’s different,” said Miss Elizabeth.
“My furniture is all Sheraton—modern, of course, but good in style,” said Andy loftily. Then he saw Elizabeth’s hair against the lilacs, all brown and gold, and something made him forget he was the new Vicar—he was a boy and she a girl, with a joke between them. “I say,” he chuckled, “you know it wouldn’t go into her house. She’s made me put her sideboard into my dining-room.”