Philip went into the dairy, where Kate was now skimming the cream of the last night's milking. He was sorry there was nothing but a message for her this time. Had she answered Pete's former letters? No, she had not.
“I must be writing soon, I suppose,” she said, blowing the yellow surface. “But I wish—puff—I could have something to tell him—puff, puff—about you.”
“About me, Kate?”
“Something sweet, I mean “—puff, puff, puff.
She shot a sly look upward. “Aren't you sure yet? Can't say still? Not properly? No?”
Philip pretended not to understand. Kate's laugh echoed in the empty cream tins. “How you want people to say things!”
“No, really—” began Philip.
“I've always heard that the girls of Douglas are so beautiful. You must see so many now. Oh, it would be delicious to write a long story to Pete. Where you met—in church, naturally. What she's like—fair, of course. And—and all about it, you know.”
“That's a story you will never tell to Pete, Kate,” said Philip.
“No, never,” said Kate quite as light, and this being just what she wished to hear, she added mournfully. “Don't say that, though. You can't think what pleasure you are denying me, and yourself, too. Take some poor girl to your heart, Philip. You don't know how happy it will make you.”