Dolly put up her eyebrows and laughed softly. “I’m perfectly competent to do the work myself; these cans weigh nothing.” She held it out at arm’s-length and lightly put it down, rising again elastic from the burden.
“You’re accustomed to the work, of course,” said Angela, dryly.
“I am; we do our own washing at home.”
“If you want to be in by four, we had better start,” Lal interposed.
“Good-bye,” said Angela, not offering her hand; was not Dolly’s wet?
“Pray don’t come back, Mr. Laurenson; there are so many bad characters about the roads now; you might meet my brother Bernard!” Dolly retorted, with a faintly satirical accent.
“I certainly shall,” said Lal, quietly.
Between Burnt House and the high-road Lal received a full-length portrait of his misconduct; he listened, as his habit was, in silence. Angela soon tired of reproving a dummy. “Why don’t you say something?” she cried at last.
“What do you want me to say?”
“Do you mean to go back to that girl?”