“Where’s the good?” he said. “There’s more fun here.”
“You try it, an’ see,” she murmured coyly.
The suggestion caught on. It was discussed while Martin and Jim Bates were driving a weight up a pole by striking a lever with a heavy hammer. Anything in the shape of an athletic feat always attracted Martin.
Angèle was delighted. She scented a row. These village urchins were imps after her own heart.
“Oh, let’s,” she agreed. “It’ll be a change. I’ll show you the American two-step.”
Frank had his arm around her waist now.
“Right-o!” he cried. “Evelyn, you and Ernest lead the way.”
The girl, flattered by being bracketed publicly with one of the squire’s sons, enjoined caution.
“Once we’re past t’ stables it’s all right,” she said. “I don’t suppose Fred’ll hear us, anyhow.”
Fred was at the front of the hotel watching the road, watching Kitty Thwaites as she flitted upstairs and down, watching George Pickering through the bar window, and grinning like a fiend when he saw that somewhat ardent wooer, hilarious now, but sober enough according to his standard, glancing occasionally at his watch.