“What?” said Miss Day, looking into the box at the dress alluded to. “O, I know what you mean—that the vicar will never let me wear muslin?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I know it is condemned by all orders in the church as flaunting, and unfit for common wear for girls who’ve their living to get; but we’ll see.”
“In the interest of the church, I hope you don’t speak seriously.”
“Yes, I do; but we’ll see.” There was a comely determination on her lip, very pleasant to a beholder who was neither bishop, priest, nor deacon. “I think I can manage any vicar’s views about me if he’s under forty.”
Dick rather wished she had never thought of managing vicars.
“I certainly shall be glad to get some of your delicious tea,” he said in rather a free way, yet modestly, as became one in a position between that of visitor and inmate, and looking wistfully at his lonely saucer.
“So shall I. Now is there anything else we want, Mr Dewy?”
“I really think there’s nothing else, Miss Day.”
She prepared to sit down, looking musingly out of the window at Smart’s enjoyment of the rich grass. “Nobody seems to care about me,” she murmured, with large lost eyes fixed upon the sky beyond Smart.