His action, at least, Phoebe understood, if not his words; for as he sprang up and cleared the board of the relics of the robin, the miller's daughter, looking as if the whole thing was a play, brought out from some crib a large platter of wild strawberries bordered with vine leaves; along with some bowls of very good looking milk.
'Upon my word, Rollo!'—said the other gentleman.
'Ah, that touches you, Mr. Falkirk! You don't deserve it—but you may have some. And I will be generous—Mr. Falkirk, here is a wing of the robin.'
'No, thank you,' said the other, laughing. 'Why these are fine!'
'Is the air fine out of doors, Mr. Rollo?' asked the young lady.
'Nothing can be finer.'
'What you call "strong," sir?'
'Strong as a rose—or as a lark's whistle—or as June sunlight; strong in a gentle way; I don't admire things that are too strong.'
'Things that you think ought to be weak. But I was trying to find out whether your private collation of air could have taken away your appetite.'
'I think not—I haven't inquired after it, but now that you speak of the matter, I think it must have been bread and cheese.'