“After what has occurred, you know. What a fellow you are! In the orchard, you know.”
Pooke turned blood-red. A fly was tickling him; he raised the butt-end of his whip and rubbed his nose with it.
“Get along, Tucker!” he shouted. Tucker was the horse.
“I hope I shall profit better from your example than I have from all the parson’s sermons,” pursued Rose.
“What are you at?” asked Pooke uneasily, conscious that some ulterior end was in his companion’s view, as she thus lavished encomiums on him, and then dug into his nerves a needlepoint of sharp remark.
“What am I at? Oh, Jan! nothing at all, but sitting here with my hands in my lap, so happy to have a drive’and in such excellent company’company so good.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“It is not every man would lend his cart, nay, drive himself, to do a favour to a girl who had treated him outrageously.”
“When did you treat me so?”
“I’oh, Jan’not I! I could not have done that. A thousand times no”’ Rose spoke in pretty agitation, and fluttered at his side. “I mean Kitty.”