“A farmer,” said a sleepy voice behind the rosebush.
Miss Naylor leaped. “Greta! How you startled me! A farmer—that is—an—an agriculturalist!”
“A farmer with vineyards—he told us, and he is not ashamed. Why is it a pity, Miss Naylor?”
Miss Naylor's lips looked very thin.
“For many reasons, of which you know nothing.”
“That is what you always say,” pursued the sleepy voice; “and that is why, when I am to be married, there shall also be a pity.”
“Greta!” Miss Naylor cried, “it is not proper for a girl of your age to talk like that.”
“Why?” said Greta. “Because it is the truth?”
Miss Naylor made no reply to this, but vexedly cut off a sound rose, which she hastily picked up and regarded with contrition. Greta spoke again:
“Chris said: 'I have got the pictures, I shall tell her'. but I shall tell you instead, because it was I that told the story.”