"Diana," said I, "heaven sends dew for the flower, honey for the bee and butterfly, the worm for the bird, and beef for the Briton. Let us then be duly thankful that we are neither flower, butterfly nor bird."
"It would be worse to be the worm, I think," she answered.
Alas! It seemed we were not to be long unmolested for, roused by a shuffling step, I glanced hastily up and beheld an old woman hobbling towards us bent upon a stick, a miserably ragged, furtive, hag-like creature who nodded and leered upon us as she came.
"Lor', Ann!" she cried in queer, piping tones. "Lorramity, Ann—so you've fell in love at last, 'ave ye, dearie? And why not, my pretty, why not? There's nowt like a bit o' love—'cept it be a bit o' beef! O Ann, gi'es a bite o' the good meat—a mouthful for poor old Moll, do 'ee now—do!"
"Why, for sure!" answered Diana. "You can eat and welcome, Moll; sit ye down here by me and rest your old bones. And I ain't fallen in love wi' no one, Moll."
"Ain't you, Ann; lor', dearie, ain't you!" piped the old creature, snatching the food Diana offered. "But what about your nice young pal 'ere? Is 'e for comp'ny's sake—jest to keep away the solitood, eh, dearie?"
"We're padding it to Tonbridge, Moll."
"Tonbridge—hey!" gabbled this fearsome old woman, clawing at the meat with her bony, talon-like fingers in a highly offensive manner. "Tonbridge, hey, dearie?" she mumbled, stuffing the meat into her mouth until I wondered she did not choke to death outright. "'T is a goodish step from 'ere, dearie," she gasped, when at last she could speak, "a goodish bit an' love may ketch ye afore ye get there—eh, dearie, eh? I 'ope's it do, for love's a pretty thing when you're young—I know, for I was young once—aye an' 'ansome too, I was—"
"I don't love anybody, Moll, and never shall."
"Don't say that, dearie, oh, don't say that! Some man'll win an' tame ye yet, for all your proud, wild ways an' little knife—'e will, dearie—'e will; maids is for men an' men—"