“But, Pete, Pete, Pete, whatever am I to say all this about?”
Pete's puffing and panting ceased. “What about? Why, about the girl for sure.”
“The girl!” said Philip.
“What else?” said Pete.
“Kate? Am I to speak for you to the father for Kate?”
Philip's voice seemed to come up from the bottom depths of his throat.
“Are you thinking hard of the job, Phil?”
There was a moment's silence. The blood had rushed to Philip's face, which was full of strange matter, but the darkness concealed it.
“I didn't say that,” he faltered.
Pete mistook Philip's hesitation for a silent commentary on his own unworthiness. “I know I'm only a sort of a waistrel,” he said, “but, Phil, the way I'm loving that girl it's shocking. I can never take rest for thinking of her. No, I'm not sleeping at night nor working reg'lar in the day neither. Everything is telling of her, and everything is shouting her name. It's 'Kate' in the sea, and 'Kate' in the river, and the trees and the gorse. 'Kate,' 'Kate,' 'Kate,' it's Kate constant, and I can't stand much more of it. I'm loving the girl scandalous, that's the truth, Phil.”