He held out his inflamed, barbaric hands.
She winced and said:
“It won’t matter—you’ll give the realistic touch.”
He laughed ironically.
“No—you must come,” she insisted.
“I’ll have a drink then, if you’ll let me,” he said, yielding.
She got up quickly, blushing, offering him the tiny, pretty cup.
“I’m awfully sorry,” she said.
“Never mind,” he muttered, and turning from the proffered cup he lay down flat, put his mouth to the water, and drank deeply. She stood and watched the motion of his drinking, and of his heavy breathing afterwards. He got up, wiping his mouth, not looking at her. Then he washed his hands in the water, and stirred up the mud. He put his hand to the bottom of the trough, bringing out a handful of silt, with the grey shrimps twisting in it. He flung the mud on the floor where the poor grey creatures writhed.
“It wants cleaning out,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied, shuddering. “You won’t be long,” she added, taking up the silver kettle.
In a few moments he got up and followed her reluctantly down. He was nervous and irritable.
The girls were seated on tufts of hay, with the men leaning in attendance on them, and the man-servant waiting on all. George was placed between Lettie and Hilda. The former handed him his little egg-shell of tea, which, as he was not very thirsty, he put down on the ground beside him. Then she passed him the bread and butter, cut for five-o’clock
