He whistled softly, but without obvious discontent, and made a change in his labors. Giving the machine a well-earned rest, he began to gather up the cut grass from a square of canvas that lay extended on the ground and stuffed it into the sack referred to by Mrs. Peters. This task brought him near the tall privet-hedge, reinforced by a four-foot paling, which sheltered the vicarage garden from the road. He had hardly accounted for a dozen armfuls when a voice from the other side of the hedge said, "Good morning."
Regardless of Mrs. Peters' late instructions, the odd-job man dropped a generous portion of grass and stood transfixed. "So you've come!" he said quietly but distinctly. "For goodness' sake let's have a look at your pretty face!"
The privet-hedge parted, and a damsel of twenty-three smiled upon the gratified Brown.
"Is that better?" she asked.
"Lots," replied the odd-job man, pressing closer to the hedge. "But I tell you what would be better still——"
"Yes?"
"I shall have to whisper it...."
The damsel, full of innocent curiosity, bent forward to listen. The odd-job man, congratulating himself on extraordinary cunning, bent forward and essayed a kiss of welcome. The intended recipient, however, seemed to be possessed of a sixth sense or instinct, for, when his lips were on the point of meeting hers, she drew back with a melodious cry of surprise. The kiss was too late to be checked, and unhappily was bestowed upon a bunch of privet.
The odd-job man mildly whispered the equivalent of "How very annoying!" and then remonstrated in a louder tone. He pointed out that he had not seen his visitor for a week, and that under the circumstances the least she could do, etc.
"Ye ... es," agreed the damsel, parting the hedge once more, "it is true, all that you say. But you forget that you have not earned it yet."