He had sat with the farmer for a while, talking of the weather and the crops and the prospects of the harvest, and then, seeing Sheila going across the yard, he had followed her.
"Well?" she said, looking at him quizzically.
He did not know what to say, so he stood there smiling at her. Her arms were bare to the bend, and the neck of her blouse was open so that he saw her firm, brown throat.
"Well!" he replied, still smiling, and "Well?" she said again.
She went into the byre, and he followed her to the door, and stood peering into the dark interior where a sick cow lay lowing softly.
"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" Sheila called to him.
"I have a whole lot to say," he replied, "but I don't know how to say it!"
She laughed at that, and he liked the strong, quick sound of her laughter. "You're the quare wee fella," she exclaimed.
Wee fellow! He flushed and straightened himself.
"I was passing along the road," he said stiffly, "and I thought I'd come up and see your uncle!..."