Contrariwise, Jerry was neat and dressed out as she had never seen him. His puttees were carefully wound, his buttons were polished, his tunic was brushed, his hair was sleek with water. He stood looking at her in his furtive gipsy way, which somehow suggested a cast in his fine eyes which were perfect enough.
“Ivy....”
She had decided that he should be the first to speak, and had let the silence drag on for two full minutes.
“Well?”
“I’ve come—I’ve come to ask you to forgive me.”
“I’ll forgive you sure enough, Jerry Sumption—but I aun’t going wud you no more, if that’s wot you mean.”
“You’ve taken up with another fellow.”
“That’s no concern of yourn.”
“But tell me if it’s truth or lie?”
“It’s truth.”