“I think the Vicar likes you, Joe?”
“Do he?” and he kept drawing nearer and nearer, little by little, until his other hand went clean round Polly Sweetlove’s waist, and—well an owl flew out of the tree at that moment, and drew off my attention; but afterwards
I saw that they both kept looking at the root of the tree, and then Joe said;
“But you love th’ baker, Polly?”
“No,” whispered Polly; “no, no, never!”
“Now, look at that!” said Joe, recovering himself a little; “I always thought you liked the baker.”
“Never, Joe.”
“Well then, why didn’t you look at me?”
Polly blushed.
“Joe, they said you was so wild.”