He laughed a little now. “I! The whip! The whip!”—he showed his hunting-crop, and was gone.
His manner of speech was rapid, and he had a hoarse sort of voice, almost as of sore-throat.
Of the two not farmers, one—the author—enquired as to his name, and farm; the other man—the Moghrabîm Jew—that evening recounted to Frankl the words which he had heard.
* * * * * * *
One afternoon, two weeks later, Loveday, the author, was leaning upon a stile, talking to Margaret Hogarth; and he said: “I love you! If you could deign—”
“Truth is,” she said, “you are in love with my brother, Dick, and you think it is me!”
She was a woman of twenty-five, large and buxom, though neat-waisted, her face beautifully fresh and wholesome, and he of middle-size, with a lazy ease of carriage, small eyes set far apart, a blue-velvet jacket, duck trousers very dirty, held up by a belt, a red shirt, an old cloth hat, a careless carle, greatly famed.
“But it isn't of your brother, but of you, that I am wanting to speak! Tell me—”
“No—I can't. I am a frivolous old woman to be talking to you about such things at all! But, since it is as you say, wait, perhaps I may be able—But I must be going now—”
There was embarrassment in her now: and suddenly she walked away, going to meet—another man.