“Yes, do; there are plenty of folks that don’t mind: neither for your good nor for their own feelings. You can go, and welcome. And I’m going back to the house.”
“Oh, stop a moment, Patty! Don’t take a fellow up so quick! It isn’t nice to hear a girl say that, when you worship the ground she stands on——”
“The smell of beer,” said Patty, sniffing audibly with her nostrils in the air, “is what I never could abide.”
“You oughtn’t to mind it. If it wasn’t for beer——”
“Oh, taunt me with it, do!” cried Patty. “If it wasn’t for beer, neither Richard Hewitt of the Seven Thorns, nor them that belongs to him, that once had their lands and their farms as good as any one, and more horses in their stables than you have ever had at the Manor, couldn’t get on at all, nor pay their way—Oh, taunt me with it! It’s come to that, and I can’t gainsay it. I draw beer for my living, and I ought to encourage them that come. But I can’t abide it, all the same,” cried Patty, stamping her foot on the dry and sandy turf; “and I won’t look at a man, if he was a prince, that is soaking and drinking night and day!”
She turned and walked off towards the house with her quick, springy step, followed by the unhappy Gervase, who called “Patty! Patty!” by intervals, as he went after humbly. At last, just before they came into sight of the loungers about the door, he ventured to catch at her sleeve.
“Patty! Patty! just for one moment! Listen—do listen to me!”
“What were you pleased to want, sir?” said Patty, turning upon him. “Another tankard of beer?”
“Oh, Patty,” said the young man, “if I was to give it up, and never touch another blessed drop again——”
“It would be real good for you—the very best thing you could do.”