"Well," I explained, lifting my gaze to the time-worn timbering above my head, "people seeing us together might suppose we—we were—lovers—"
"But we ain't!" she retorted, turning to look at me. "And never shall be—shall we?"
"No!" said I with my gaze still turned upward. "Of course not! But none the less people might think we were—were living together!"
"Well, so we are, ain't we?" she demanded.
"But," said I, staring at my shoe again, "suppose they imagine—"
"What, Peregrine?"
"Evil of us?"
"What matter, s' long as we knows different?"
"But I cannot bear that any should speak or even think evil of you,
Diana—"
"Never mind about me—though it's kind of you!" she added in that suddenly soft, half-shy tone that I have before attempted to describe. "Y' see," she continued, "nobody ever troubled themselves about me all my life, except Jerry—or them as I keeps my little knife for. And you ain't that sort, so we'll go on together until I feels like leaving you, an' then I'll go—"