She stood up, and stepped past him, and seated herself on the step immediately above that he occupied.
“In the world!” repeated Archelaus. “What world—that where murders and burglaries and divorces are the great subject of talk?”
“Aye—in the world where something is doing, where there is life, not in the world of mangold-wurzel.”
“I do not know, Tamsin,” said the lad dispiritedly. “I hope not.”
“Why not? I am not happy here. I want to be where something is stirring. Why,” said Thomasine with a flash of anger in her cheek and eye and the tone of her voice—“Why am I to be a poor farm girl, and Miss Arminell Inglett to have all she wishes? She to be wealthy, and I to have nothing? She to be happy, and I wretched? I suppose I am good-looking, eh, Arkie?”
“Of course you are,” said he, “but, Tamsin, I cannot talk to you as you are behind me.”
“I do not care to see your face,” said the girl, “the back of your collar and coat are enough for me. Is that your Sunday wide-awake?”
“Yes—what have you against it?”
“Only that there is a hole in it, there”—she thrust her finger through the gap in the crown, and touched his scalp.
“I know there is, Tamsin; a coal bounced on to it from the fire.”