“Please, Mrs. Bolland,” she said coaxingly, “may I not go through the back kitchen, too?”
“Sure-ly, honey,” cried Martha. “One way’s as good as another. Martin, tak t’ young leddy anywheres she wants te go, an’ dinnat be so gawky. She won’t bite ye.”
The two passed into the farmyard.
“You see, Martin,” explained Angèle coolly, “I must find out how Jim Bates and Tommy Beadlam always get hold of you without other people being the wiser. Show me the lane and the paddock they tell me of.”
“I don’t see why it should interest you,” was the ungracious reply.
“You dear boy! Are you angry yet because I wouldn’t let you kiss me the other night?”
He was compelled to laugh at the outrageous untruth.
“I’m afraid I spoke very crossly then,” he admitted, thinking it best to avoid argument.
“Oh, yes. I wept for hours. My poor little eyes were sore yesterday. Look and see if they are red now.”
They were standing behind the woodpile. She thrust her face temptingly near. Her beautiful eyes, clear and limpid in their dark depths, blinked saucily. Her parted lips revealed two rows of white, even teeth, and her sweet breath mingled with the fragrance that always clung to her garments. He experienced a new timidity now; he was afraid of her in this mood, though secretly flattered by the homage she was paying.