Thus admonished, the youths dashed at the chiffonier, where they jostled one another for the green dessert plates.
“Have a nut, Miss Ruan,” implored Mr. Spiller, returning to her side. “So sustaining. Not one? Won’t you share one with me now?” he whispered facetiously, bending towards her.
The girl drew back proudly. There was no mistaking the gesture.
“That girl of Ruan’s is too big for her boots, as the saying is,” whispered Mrs. Jenkins to a friend.
“Is she? She’s quiet, I noticed, but she’s pleasant mannered enough, I thought.”
“Look at ’er with young Spiller. I don’t call that pleasant.”
“Perhaps he’s offended her,” Mrs. Walker returned comfortably. “Young men nowadays are very free, I fancy. When I was young—”
“Nonsense. Why, most girls like a bit of chaff. I’ve no patience with stuck-up rubbish like that.”
“Now, you girls and boys,” called Mr. Jenkins’s voice, drowning the buzz of talk and laughter, and clatter of plates, “what do you say to kiss-in-the-ring! There’ll be just time for a good game before supper, eh, missus?”
Some of the girls furtively tossed their heads. “So common,” one or two murmured.