"I said a vain and foolish thing to you a while since."
"Aye, Martin you did!" says she, bending over her pile of sticks. "But which do you mean?"
"I mean that folly regarding love."
"O, was that folly, Martin?" she questioned, busy laying the sticks in place.
"Arrant folly, for I could never love you—or any woman—"
"O, why not, Martin?"
"Because I have no gift for't—no leaning that way—nor ever shall—"
"Why indeed, you are no ordinary man, Martin. Shall I light the fire?"
"No, I will."
"Yes, Martin!" And down she sits with folded hands, watching me mighty solemn and demure and I very conscious of her scrutiny. Having plucked and drawn my bird, I fell to trimming it with my knife, yet all the time feeling her gaze upon me, so that what with this and my anger I pricked my thumb and cursed beneath my breath, whereupon she arose and left me.