Robert pulled thoughtfully at his yellow beard, his blue eyes looking very kind and sympathetic the while.
“P’r’aps he’ll coom back,” he hazarded after a moment.
“No, no, never!” she cried brokenly; then in a curiously hard voice and with a sudden flash in her eyes—“What do I care if he does? He’s nothin’ to me now—nothin’. He’s gone an’ left me wi’out so much as a word—just took an’ walked off. And he’ve never wrote either—not so much as a word. He mid be dead only I do know he bain’t.”
Formby continued to contemplate her, still stroking that fine yellow beard of his.
“Poor lass! poor lass!” he said at last. “And ’tis a comfort to you, is it, to coom walkin’ here? Well, see you, my dear, you can coom here as often as ye like about this time. I’m pretty often here mysel’ then, and ’twouldn’t be same thing as if you was trespassin’. Ye mustn’t bring no young chaps here, though,” he added after a pause. “I doubt they’ll want to come, however little you might want them. You’re a bonny lass—as bonny a lass as ever I see in all my days!”
She heaved an impatient sigh.
“I did tell ’ee plain as I don’t want nobody,” she cried. “Much good it do do me to be nice when——”
“Is there no other man at all i’ th’ world?” inquired Robert.
“Not for me,” returned Rebecca.
Kneeling up, she began hastily to collect the tea-things, and Robert, leaning forward, pushed them towards her with willing clumsy hands. Then he rose to his feet.