Mr. Garratt was triumphant. "Really! I bought his poems and recited one of them myself at an entertainment we got up for the new chapel at Midhurst—"
"Oh!"
"I might lend you the book," but she made no answer. "I take a lively interest in most things," he went on, quickly, for he saw that their talk must necessarily come to an end in a moment, "and I should very much enjoy getting a little more conversation with you than I do at present. I think we take a similar view of a good many things. Now, Miss Barton and I take a different one. To tell the truth, I'm not overfond of chapel going and psalm singing. I believe in seeing a bit of life, and London's the place to see it in. I say"—he went up nearer to her—"I wish we were there together, don't you, eh?" and he gave her a little nudge.
She stopped and flushed with rage. "No, I do not," she answered, "and you will not touch me again, Mr. Garratt; I dislike people who are too familiar." She rubbed her elbow as if it had been stung, and strode on.
"Well, you've got a plainer way of speaking than any other young lady I've ever met in my life," he said, catching her up, "but I'll tell you something before we part—there isn't anything in the world I wouldn't do for you. Perhaps you think I'm a little free in my manner, but we can't all be as high and mighty as you are—we're not made that way, you know."
Margaret went through the garden gate without a word. Mr. Garratt had to stand still and hold his horse. "Hannah!" Margaret called. He looked alarmed, as if he thought she might be going to tell tales. "You had better come—Mr. Garratt is here."
Hannah came quickly along the garden, her face very red, and its expression by no means a pleasant one.
"How do you do, Miss Barton?" Mr. Garratt shouted, pleasantly. "I met Miss Vincent on the hill and led the mare across the fields for the pleasure of her company."
"Was it an appointment?" she asked, sharply.