“It is.”
“H’m—she’s soon going dry. Julia, old lady, don’t go and turn skinny.”
When he had gone, and the shed was still, the air seemed colder. I heard his good-humoured “Stand over, old lass,” from the other shed, and the drum-beats of the first jets of milk on the pail.
“He has a comfortable time,” said George, looking savage. I laughed. He still waited.
“You really expected Lettie to have him,” I said.
“I suppose so,” he replied, “then she’d made up her mind to it. It didn’t matter—what she wanted—at the bottom.”
“You?” said I.
“If it hadn’t been that he was a prize—with a ticket—she’d have had——”
“You!” said I.
“She was afraid—look how she turned and kept away”
“From you?” said I.
“I should like to squeeze her till she screamed.”
“You should have gripped her before, and kept her,” said I.
“She—she’s like a woman, like a cat—running to comforts—she strikes a bargain. Women are all tradesmen.”
“Don’t generalise, it’s no good.”
“She’s like a prostitute——”
“It’s banal! I believe she loves him.”
He started, and looked at me queerly. He looked quite childish in his doubt and perplexity.
“She, what——?”
“Loves him—honestly.”
