"Never say that, George—never say that," I cried, and, leaping from the saddle, I would have caught his hand in mine, but he drew back.
"You be so fine an' grand, Peter, an' I be all sooty from the fire!" he repeated. "I'd like to just wash my 'ands first."
"Oh, Black George!" said I, "dear George."
"Be you rich now, Peter?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"A gentleman wi' 'orses an' 'ouses an' servants?"
"Well—what of it?"
"I'd—like to—wash my 'ands first, if so be you don't mind, Peter."
"George," said I, "don't be a fool!" Now, as we stood thus, fronting each other in the doorway, I heard a light step upon the road behind me, and, turning, beheld Prudence.
"Oh, Prue, George is afraid of my clothes, and won't shake hands with me!" For a moment she hesitated, looking from one to the other of us—then, all at once, laughing a little and blushing a little, she leaned forward and kissed me.