‘Then give me your arm,’ said James, lowering his voice.
‘I dare not,’ answered my mother. ‘He’s so touchy about you.’
‘Come, come,’ he pressed her, ‘you are certain to do it sooner or later, so why not now?’
‘Wait till he has gone for his walk,’ said my mother; ‘and, forbye that, I’m ower old to dance with you.’
‘How old are you?’ he inquired.
‘You’re gey an’ pert!’ cried my mother.
‘Are you seventy?’
‘Off and on,’ she admitted.
‘Pooh,’ he said, ‘a mere girl!’
She replied instantly, ‘I’m no’ to be catched with chaff’; but she smiled and rose as if he had stretched out his hand and got her by the finger-tip.