Clara. O thank you, George, but am I to go idle?
George. You can take up with that there white sewing if you have a mind. ’Tis more suited to your hands nor this rough job.
[Clara puts down her sleeves and takes up her needlework.
Jessie. Sing us a song, George, whilst you do the taters.
George. No, Miss Jessie. My mood is not a singing mood this day.
Jessie. You ask him, Joan.
Clara. Will not you sing one little verse, George?
George. Nay—strangers from London town would have no liking for the songs we sing down here among the fields.
Clara. There was a song I once heard in the country that pleased me very well.
Jessie. What was it called?