“Try.”
“I have tried hard all the time I’ve been thinking; for a marriage would be very nice in one sense. People would talk about me, and think I had won my battle, and I should feel triumphant, and all that. But a husband—”
“Well!”
“Why, he’d always be there, as you say; whenever I looked up, there he’d be.”
“Of course he would—I, that is.”
“Well, what I mean is that I shouldn’t mind being a bride at a wedding, if I could be one without having a husband. But since a woman can’t show off in that way by herself, I shan’t marry—at least yet.”
“That’s a terrible wooden story!”
At this criticism of her statement Bathsheba made an addition to her dignity by a slight sweep away from him.
“Upon my heart and soul, I don’t know what a maid can say stupider than that,” said Oak. “But dearest,” he continued in a palliative voice, “don’t be like it!” Oak sighed a deep honest sigh—none the less so in that, being like the sigh of a pine plantation, it was rather noticeable as a disturbance of the atmosphere. “Why won’t you have me?” he appealed, creeping round the holly to reach her side.
“I cannot,” she said, retreating.