And once, when, in the quiet of the evening, she had been induced to stroll out with him, they had crossed the Wye and wandered a mile or two between the dimness of the hedges, a faint yellow sky overhead and the white crescent of a young moon rising above the limitless translucence of the ether. She had not known at the time how much she was enjoying herself.
She thought of it again as her needle stitched on and on and the feet of the passers-by rang on the pavement. The shop was so low that, when a cart drove along in the middle of the road, there was nothing but a vision of wheels. One was just stopping outside, and, as a pair of singularly crooked legs was to be seen climbing down, she laid her work by, and rose as the door opened to admit a person whom she had often seen, oftener heard of, and never spoken to.
The Pig-driver entered the shop with the air of a man who brings good tidings, so cheerful was his demeanour, so satisfactory his smile, so full of a precise and proven benevolence. A chair stood by the counter, and he drew it yet closer and sat down with a studied care, which suggested that he meant to make immense purchases at illimitable leisure. Before speaking, he eyed her carefully from top to toe.
“What can I serve you with?” inquired Mary civilly.
“He! he!” chuckled Bumpett, “I bean’t come to buy; no, no, not to buy.”
He laid his stick along the counter, and spreading his elbows out over it, leered up into her face.
“I be come to see you, you an’ no one else. Ah! I’m an old stump, I am, but I do like the sight of a pretty face.”
She looked annoyed.
“No offence, my dear, no offence.”
“What is your business?” she asked, drawing a little back from the counter.