“I don’t know,” said Eleanor, laughing. “Cook says I do foy at things so. But when one once begins, you know——”
“What’s foy?” I interrupted. “Cook says you foy—what does she mean?”
“Oh, to foy at anything is to slave—to work hard at it. At least, not merely hard-working, but to go at it very hotly, almost foolishly; in fact, to foy at it, you know. Clement foys at things too. And then he gets tired and cross; and so do I, often. What o’clock is it, Margery?”
I pulled out my souvenir watch and answered, “Just eleven.”
“We ought to have some ‘drinkings,’ we’ve worked so hard,” said Eleanor, laughing again. “Haymakers, and people like that, always have drinkings at eleven, you know, and dinner at one, and tea at four or five, and supper at eight. Ah! there goes Thomas. Thomas!”
Thomas came up, and Eleanor (discreetly postponing the subject of the rhubarb-pot for the present) sent a pleading message to cook, which resulted in her sending us two bottles of ginger-beer and several slices of thick bread-and-butter. The dear boys, who had been very sensibly snoozing in the shade, divined by some instinct the arrival of our lunch-basket, and were kind enough to share the bread-and-butter with us.
“Drinkings” over, we set to work again.
I was surprised to observe that there were four box-edged beds, but as Eleanor said nothing about it, I made no remark. Perhaps it belonged to some dead brother or sister.
As the weeds were cleared away, one plant after another became apparent. I called Eleanor’s attention to all that I found, and she seemed to welcome them as old friends.
“Oh, that’s the grey primrose; I’m so glad! And there are Jack’s hepaticas; they look like old rubbish. Don’t dig deep into Jack’s garden, please, for he’s always getting plants and bulbs given him by people in the village, and he sticks everything in, so his garden really is crammed full; and you’re sure to dig into tulips, or crocuses, or lilies, or something valuable.”