After a pause, Mr. Sheridan said, with freezing courtesy,
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Oh, no,” said Jane, kindly. “Nothing at all.” And until she had finished her apple, and flung the core with admirable markmanship against a tree at the other side of the road, silence reigned—the silence of indignation and helplessness on Mr. Sheridan’s part, of serene composure on Jane’s.
“I am just looking around,” she condescended to explain at last.
“I see,” said Mr. Sheridan politely. “Do you know that you are trespassing?”
“Oh, yes. But that’s all right. I’m always trespassing. I can’t help it. Out there—” she jerked her head in the direction of the fields, “there are signs everywhere you go, ‘No trespassing.’ But by the time I come to ’em I’ve already been trespassing for miles, so I might as well go on. Besides, I’ve often done it purposely just to see what would happen, but nothing ever does.” And having said this in a most reassuring tone, she fished a second apple out of the pocket of her sweater and began to polish it as she had the first. To his horror, Mr. Sheridan saw that those green pockets were bulging.
“You’ll make yourself ill,” he remarked.
“Oh, no. I never make myself ill,” said Jane.
“Are you going to eat all those?” he demanded, pointing with his stick at her crammed pockets.
“Well, I could, easily,” said Jane, “but you can have as many as you like. Catch.” And she pulled out a third apple, and tossed it to him. He caught it; but feeling that it was not dignified even to pretend that he wanted it, he laid it down beside him on the bench.