"Oh, I'm sick of Fred. He's so rough in his talk."
Mary leaned back against the table and sipped her tea, conscious that, in spite of her easy patronage, she was bitterly jealous of Violet, of her youth and unconscious egoism. She was jealous of the suitors who rang their bicycle bells in the road on Saturday evenings as they waited, posy in cap, to ride with Violet to Hardrascliffe.
"What do you mean by that?" she asked.
"Oh, you know. When we go to the pictures and there isn't much room, Fred just says 'Shuve up, lass,' right loud so as every one can hear we're common folk like; while Perce, he always says polite 'Will you be so kind as to pass a little further up the seat, please?' I have myself to think of."
Violet tossed an independent head.
"But that's so silly," said Mary with common sense, "if you really like Fred best. He's devoted to you. You used to tell me you liked him last autumn."
"Well, I've learnt a thing or two since then. Anyway, I'd much rather walk out with a tailor's assistant than a common labourer."
"But it matters so much more whether you love him. It does really. It's not a bit of use marrying some one just because it seems a sensible thing to do." Mary's earnestness was quite remarkable.
"Oh—love!" sneered Violet.
And there was an end of it.