Owen. She will: but Mabel dearest, what do you think of Gilbert?
Mabel. (turning away) I strive not to think of him at all.
Owen. But sure I was not wrong there—he told me as much as that he loved you.
Mabel. Then he never told me that much.
Owen. No! What, not when he walked with you to the well?
Mabel. No. What made you think he did?
Owen. Why, the words he said about you when he met me, was—where’s your sister Mabel? Gone to the well, Gilbert, says I. And do you think a man that has a question to ask her might make bold to step after her? says he. Such a man as you—why not? says I. Then he stood still, and twirled a rose he held in his hand, and he said nothing, and I no more, till he stooped down, and from the grass where we stood pulled a sprig of clover. Is not this what you call shamrock? says he. It is, says I. Then he puts the shamrock along with the rose—How would that do? says he.
Mabel. Did he say that, Owen?
Owen. Yes, or how would they look together? or, would they do together? or some words that way; I can’t be particular to the word—you know, he speaks different from us; but that surely was the sense; and I minded too, he blushed up to the roots, and I pitied him, and answered—
Mabel. Oh, what did you answer?