Miss Spaulding, in astonishment: “What?”
Miss Reed: “Did I speak? I didn’t know it. I”—
Miss Spaulding, desisting from practice: “What is that strange, hollow, rumbling, mumbling kind of noise?”
Miss Reed, softly closing the register with her foot: “I don’t hear any strange, hollow, rumbling, mumbling kind of noise. Do you hear it now?”
Miss Spaulding: “No. It was the Brighton whistle, probably.”
Miss Reed: “Oh, very likely.” As Miss Spaulding turns again to her practice Miss Reed re-opens the register and listens again. A little interval of silence ensues, while Ransom lights a cigarette.
Grinnidge: “So you sought opportunities of rescuing her from other cows?”
Ransom, returning: “That wasn’t necessary. The young lady was so impressed by my behavior, that she asked if I would give her some lessons in the use of oil.”
Grinnidge: “She thought if she knew how to paint pictures like yours she wouldn’t need any one to drive the cows away.”
Ransom: “Don’t be farcical, Grinnidge. That sort of thing will do with some victim on the witness-stand who can’t help himself. Of course I said I would, and we were off half the time together, painting the loveliest and loneliest bits around Ponkwasset. It all went on very well, till one day I felt bound in conscience to tell her that I didn’t think she would ever learn to paint, and that—if she was serious about it she’d better drop it at once, for she was wasting her time.”