Tommy looked up eagerly.
"Why, then I must have seen you in church—but you looked so different you know, so jolly—jolly different."
Madge laughed.
"I've often seen you, in an eton jacket, with a very big collar, and you always went to sleep in the sermon, and forgot to get up when the vicar said 'And now.'"
Tommy grinned.
Then an inspiration seized him.
"I say; let's go on to the mill, an' we'll pot water-rats on the way, an' get some tea there. He's an awful good sort, is the miller. His name's Berrill, and he's ridden to London and back in a day, and it's a hundred and fifty miles, and he can carry two bags of wheat at once, and there's sure to be some rats up at Becklington End, and it's only about three o'clock—and it's such an absolutely ripping day."
He stopped and pulled up some grass.
"You might as well," he concluded, in a voice which implied that her choice was of no consequence to him.
Her black eyes danced, and she swung her hat thoughtfully round her finger.