There was silence in the little room, and the two cheap clocks which stood on the dresser ticked loudly, one half a second behind the other. He drew an imaginary line on the floor with the ash-plant in his hand.
“Well, I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at the point of the stick. She did not speak.
“I suppose you couldn’t come to like me in time? Likely enough I bean’t the sort for a girl to fancy, but ye shan’t rue it if ye take me. Don’t be afeard.”
She looked up and saw behind the calm, heavy face into the upright soul of the sheep-stealer, and the sight made her more determined. “It’s not that. But don’t you ask me, George Williams—don’t you, for I can’t.”
“D’ye think I shouldn’t like ye enough?” he asked, after a pause. “Is it that that’s the trouble?”
“Ye may like me a bit,” she answered boldly, “but it’s goodness wi’ you, not love.”
“I like you well,” he said, “don’t disbelieve me. Mary, Mary, you’re not taking on about that—about Walters o’ Masterhouse, curse him?”
“I can’t but think of him. I hate him, but I think of him.”
“You hate him, Mary?”