"Now don't go for to trying any such experiment as that, Aileen; you'll fret the cow besides mussing your clean dress."
"I don't care; it'll wash. Now, please, do let me, Tave, just this once."
"I tell you the cow won't give down her milk if you take hold of her. She'll get all in a fever having a girl fooling round her." There followed the rattle of pails and a stool.
"Now, look here, Octavius Buzzby, who knows best about a cow, you or I?"
"Well, seeing as I've made it my business to look after cows ever since I was fifteen year old, you can't expect me to give in to you and say you do."
Her merry laugh rang out. Champney longed to echo it, but thought best to lie low for a while and enjoy the fun so unexpectedly provided.
"Tavy, dear, that only goes to prove you are a mere man; a dear one to be sure—but then! Don't you flatter yourself for one moment that you, or any other man, really know any creature of the feminine gender from a woman to a cow. You simply can't, Tavy, because you aren't feminine. Can you comprehend that? Can you say on your honor as a man that you have ever been able to tell for certain what Mrs. Champney, or Hannah, or I, for instance, or this cow, or the cat, or Bellona, when she hasn't been ridden enough, or the old white hen you've been trying to force to sit the last two weeks, is going to do next? Now, honor bright, have you?"
Octavius was grumbling some reply inaudible to Champney.
"No, of course you haven't; and what's more you never will. Not that it's your fault, Tavy, dear, it's only your misfortune." Exasperating patronage was audible in her voice. Champney noted that a trace of the rich Irish brogue was left. "Here, give me that pail."
"I tell you, Aileen, you can't do it; you've never learned to milk."