"Well, I'm sorry the drive is ended," the latter was saying, as, having jumped out of the buggy, he reached up a chivalrous hand to assist down the healthy weight of Mrs. Jenny Rourke.
"Oh, indade," observed that lady, her head on one side and her foot on the step. "Well," she added, coquettishly, as she stepped lightly out, executed a little jig, clicked her heels together, stood up straight, and made a face at Mr. Coleman, "I'm to be the wan that's not sorry, then—is that it. You're a divil, Dexie!"
"Your sayin' that don't make it so-o, sweetheart," returned the sewing machine man, pleasantly; "kee-wick!" (This last a curious squirting sound, produced with tongue and cheek, as Mr. Coleman aimed an intimate jab at Mrs. Jenny Rourke's ribs.)
"Lave alone what don't concern you," was the advice this feat elicited from his driving companion, as she wrinkled an eye-corner at him over her shoulder, and vibrated (there is no other word that exactly describes the brisk teetering walk of Mrs. Jenny Rourke) off toward the house; "you sassy brat!"
The sedate and somewhat sour-faced Lovina was grabbed and all but lifted off her feet by the embrace of her friend, as the latter breezed into the farm kitchen. Then Mrs. Rourke turned and saw Daisy.
"Well, well, we-ell, an' how's the little squiress!" she roared, as she made for the girl; "come here, me darlin', and give me the feel of your pretty face. M-m-m!" and Mrs. Rourke kissed Daisy with a munching motion of her own full, handsome and still fresh lips.
"Where iver did ye pick up your knight o' the garter, in this country, alanna?" she exclaimed, holding Daisy at arms'-length between two virile palms; "why, in Canada they're as scarce as teeth in a hen. Sure, I hope he's an Old Country knight an' not just a mushroom Canadian 'Sir'. I love Canadians—especially young ones, whether they're he's or she's—but don't show me anny Canadian that's let them tack a handle to his name. What's like flannel pants an a negligee shirt to an Englishman, makes a Canadian look like a tailor's dummy. Where is he?"
"He's gone over with Jack to the new farm," Lovina put in, somewhat grumblingly, "they spend all their time over there, when Jack ought to be attendin' to his own work, if he expects to get his seedin' done in anyways decent time this spring."
At this, Mrs. Rourke let go of Daisy, bounced over, grabbed Lovina Nixon around the waist, threw her into a chair, and sat down plumply on her knee.
"Aw, Jen!" her friend protested, diffident and red, but cracking a shadowy smile for the first time that afternoon; "my hands is all dishwatery. Set down here yourself, n' let me work while we talk."