"Where's master?"
"In the shed with Brindle."
"And how is she?"
"I dunno—we've sent for the veterinary."
There was silence. Outside the flowers rustled in the slow hot breeze. The background of trees was growing dim, a web of shadow at the foot of the garden.
Handshut still leaned on the sill, and she realised that if his words were decorous, his attitude was not. Surely he had something better to do than hang in at her window. Half his face was in shadow, half was reddened by the smouldering sky—it was the face of a young gipsy, brown, sullen, and mocking. She suddenly pulled herself into a sitting posture.
"What are you staying for?—I reckon the master wants you."
"No—it's you that wants me, surelye."
The blood ebbed from her lips. She felt afraid, and yet glad. Then suddenly she realised what was happening and dragged herself back into dignity and anger.
"I don't want you."