‘Where to?’ inquired Mr. Trimblerigg, astounded at so abrupt a leave-taking.
‘Anywhere, so long as it’s away from civilization—and you!’ she declared. ‘I’ll send my specimens down to the coast, then go back the way I’ve come. And, Jonathan, if you get beautifully burnt out by a bush-fire in the next day or two, don’t think it’s them; it’ll be me.’
‘What for?’
‘For fun, or for a moral object-lesson, just as you like to take it: Davidina’s dose—or jumps for Jonathan. Good-bye!’
She had escaped—had already gone a few paces, when Mr. Trimblerigg bethought him and called after her.
‘Daffy!’ It was the old abbreviated usage from days of childhood. She returned, and stood outside the chick without lifting it.
‘Well, what?’ she queried.
And Mr. Trimblerigg’s voice came cooingly from within: ‘You haven’t kissed me, Daffy.’
‘I have not,’ she replied starkly.
‘But we haven’t quarrelled, have we?’