“Your leave doan’t matter to me.”
“Ivy....”
He caught her wrist as she was dipping the scrubbing-brush in the bucket, and she was forced to meet his eyes at last. She had tried to avoid this, staring at her soapsuds, for Jerry’s eyes were “queer.” “Leave hold of me, Jerry.”
“Not till you stand up and look at me. I can’t speak to you on all fours like this.”
Ivy stood up, rather wondering at Jerry’s power to make her do so. He was a small fellow, but not of the stubby built of Tom or Harry Beatup. On the contrary, he was lightly made as a dancing-master, his hands and feet were small but very strong, his face was small and brown, lit by two large sloe-black eyes, with lashes long and curly as a child’s. His hair was curly too, in spite of its military cropping. He was a most slovenly-looking soldier, with tunic stained and buttons dim, and puttees looping grotesquely round his slim, graceful legs.
“If the M.P.’s git hold of you ...” began Ivy jeeringly.
“There ain’t any M.P.’s hereabouts. I’m on my leave, and you’re starting to spoil it already.”
“Wot have I got to do wud your leave? You’re maaking some sort gurt big mistaake, Jerry Sumption.”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten that day at Senlac Fair?”