“Why, then, I must invent some. You might step over to Dering later in the day, Robert. Adieu, Mr. Bunkle.”
“Dinner at ’arf-past twelve, sir!” sighed Mr. Bunkle, laying down the carving-fork, “roast Sir Loin—’ot!”
CHAPTER XXVII
TELLETH HOW MR. DERWENT BEGAN HIS WOOING
Away strode Sir John across sunny fields, light of foot, treading a springy turf, breathing a fragrant air, swinging his holly-stick and vaulting stiles for the pure joy of it all. Birds piped and chirped from hedge and thicket, larks carolled in the blue, rills bubbled and laughed, and scabious flowers danced and swayed in the gentle wind in tune with the universal gladness.
And so in good time came Sir John to High Dering. For there, perched upon his accustomed stile in well-brushed hat and snowy smock-frock, sat the Ancient Person in animated converse with one who leaned gracefully against the gnarled post of the old stile, listening to the Aged One’s talk, but watching Sir John from the shadow of her hat, with eyes quick to heed all the careless, easy grace of him as he came light-treading across the sun-dappled ling.
“Rose!” said he, and bared his head; now, beholding her startled, upward glance, how should he know of the eyes that had taken such note of his altered appearance, his plain attire? “Rose,” said he, “thou rose of love!” And stood bare-headed, glad-eyed, to await her greeting.
“La, Mr. Derwent,” said she, “you wear strange, small hat, sir, yet methinks it do become you better than your night-cap!”
“And yet ’tis a very excellent night-cap!” he retorted.
“Eh—eh?” piped the Aged One. “Be ye man an’ woife, then?”