"And this onion is one of six, so take a knife and help me with 'em, 'stead of talking foolish—only go wash first; you're black as a sweep."
"Gladly," said I, "if you will sing again."
"Nobody can sing and peel onions—they make your eyes run."
"Why, then, let me—"
"Hush!" she exclaimed suddenly.
"What is it?"
"Strangers coming—listen!" And presently I heard it too, a rustle of leaves, crackling of twigs, voices and jingling spurs, coming nearer. Then as I rose with a premonition of approaching fate, forth into the clearing stepped my uncle George, my uncle Jervas and my aunt Julia. She was dressed for riding and carried the skirt of her close-fitting habit across her arm, and never had she looked handsomer nor more magnificently statuesque as she stood, her noble figure proudly erect, all potent femininity from feathered hat to dainty, firm-planted riding boots.
My lips were opening in glad welcome, I had taken a quick step forward, when her words arrested me.
"George Vereker!" she exclaimed, with a waft of her jewelled riding switch towards Diana and myself, "O Sir Jervas, is it with such dreadful creatures as these that you have doomed my poor, delicately nurtured Peregrine to consort? Aye, well may you grow purple, George, and you turn your back in shame, Jervas, to behold thus the degrading company—"
But here, waiting for no more, I started forward, and halting within a yard of my aunt, I laid grimy hand upon grimy shirt-bosom and bowed.